Sometimes Friends, Sometimes Enemies, Always Brothers
by KassyMalone
Summary: When Britain collapses in the middle of the World Meeting, of course its cause for concern. When it turns out the problem is not with Britain, but with Arthur himself, how will his friends and fellow nations react?
1. Chapter 1

Usual disclaimers of non ownership go here, for those of you who miss them when they're gone. This one's dedicated to my friend Lou0, who is a massive FRUK fan, and is sick of France being portrayed as a rapist.

* * *

**Sometimes Friends, Sometimes Enemies, Always Brothers.**

France sat in the waiting room, arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently on the old linoleum floor. He tried not to be concerned, but some things were beyond his control. England had collapsed in the middle of his address at the world conference. Concerning enough for anyone, but considering what it took to bring a nation to its knees, France most likely had very good reason to be worried. He had told the others to stay away, so as not to overwhelm the emergency room, and accompanied the unconscious England in the ambulance. How much a doctor could really do for a nation was still up for debate, but their bodies were still flesh and bone, so it was better safe than sorry.

He looked up every time a doctor came into the room, but Englands doctor was taking an annoyingly long time. When he finally showed up, he seemed to be a little different from the other doctors in a&e – he wore a shirt and tie that bore no pit-stains with immaculate hair and a clean shaven face. Despite the doctors pleasant appearance, France found his middle-manager attire disconcerting. He showed

France to an office quite a way from the emergency room and sat him down, serious look on his face.

"Before I tell you anything I shouldn't," the doctor began "Can you tell me how you know Mr. Kirkland?"

"That is a bit complicated." The Frenchman admitted "Long story short, 'e is my brother."

"I see." The doctor made a note "Is there anyone at home – does Mr Kirkland live with anyone?"

"Non, he lives alone."

"Is there any other family close by?"

"Non… 'e doesn't get along with 'is brothers."

"Parents?"

"Non. Doctor, you are worrying me, what is wrong with Arthur?"

"Well…" the doctor seemed to reason with himself "Mr Kirkland collapsed due to a mixture of exhaustion and depression. He's going to have to take some time off work. Have you ever known Mr. Kirkland to suffer from depression?"

"Not since the 1920's." France replied with a chuckle.

The doctor didn't laugh. Most likely he didn't get it. He fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Doctor, is this… serious?"

The doctor didn't give anything away, but shuffled some papers.

"Does Mr. Kirkland have any close friends who can stay with him? I've prescribed him some medication, but it doesn't seem like he'll take it."

A nurse interrupted to let them know Mr. Kirkland was ready to go home. France met him in the ward as he was fastening his tie and slipping his jacket on. The taller man examined him closely – other than the dark circled under his eyes, he looked perfectly fine. He even smirked when he saw him.

"You're the one who came?" he teased "Good grief, you did lose a bet or get outvoted?"

France didn't laugh. Englands expression changed.

"Hey now, what's with the sour look, Snail Breath? You're looking at me like I just killed your cat."

His collar was crooked. Silently, France straightened it out for him.

"I was worried, _mon ami_." He told him.

"Well, that's charming and all, but I'm fine!" Arthur assured "A couple of days off and I'll be back on my feet. I'll hop the ferry to Dover this evening and be ready and raring to go in time for work on Monday."

"I don't think that is wise, _cher_."

England snorted at him.

"I'm not a weakling, like you are." He said, slapping Frances hand away from him "The British people are hardy! A little cold won't keep me down."

* * *

True to his word, England skipped the rest of the conference and took the ferry from Calais to Dover, getting the train the rest of the way home. He was fairly tried by the time he reached his front door, but not too tired to notice that it stood sightly ajar…Shit. He definitely locked it before he left, and the days when he could carry a weapon around (legally) were long gone. Hang on, what was that smell? Arthur kicked the door open.

"What the hell!" he shrieked "Not only did you break into my house, you got here before me?!"

"_Oui_." Francis replied, placing a vase of fresh lilies of the hall table "I took the airbus. I will never understand your dislike of flying."

"That doesn't answer why!"

"You didn't ask why."

The two stared each other down, blue eyes meeting green.

"Go home."

"_Non_."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to."

Arthur was clearly getting frustrated.

"And what's your boss going to say when you don't turn up for work?" he parried.

"I took some time off." He revealed.

"How much time?"

"As much time as is necessary."

"Are you trying to piss me off?!"

"_Non_, but I expect it will 'appen anyway."

"You think your boss is just going to put up with you leaving out of the blue?"

"What, you think he can replace me?" Francis laughed "I think not."

Arthur groaned and ground his teeth. He finally kicked off his shoes and shut the door behind him.

"One week, and I'm kicking you out." He promised, not having the energy to get into a fight with him right now "I'm going to bed."

"_Non_, you are not." Francis insisted "You are going to 'ave a shower and come and join me for dinner. We are 'aving beef stewed in red wine with potato dofinouis and green beans."

"Now I remember why I hate living with you."

"_Oui, oui_, go 'ave a shower, you are getting crusty."

Muttering under his breath, Arthur dragged his bag into his room. Hearing the shower starting up, Francis went back to the kitchen. Although he wasn't overly familiar with Arthurs house, coming and going over centuries, there were things he expected to see when he got here – a fully stocked kitchen (although the less said about the food, the better), clean, warm rooms and an organised, dust-free clutter. None of that had met him when he arrived earlier today – the pantry was empty, dishes piled high in the sink, with a somewhat thick layer of dust covering the knick-knacks, doo-dads and piles of mess. Arthur himself may not have looked any different. But his house sure did.

Waiting for Arthur to get home, Francis had done enough food shopping to get them through the weekend, bought some flowers and opened all the windows to get rid of the dank. He set himself up in the spare room he always used when he stayed, packing his clothes away into the dresser. He bought a lot with him, but he could get home and back in a day if he needed to.

He snapped back to the here and now as Arthur entered the kitchen.

"_Mon Dieu_, go and dry your 'air properly!" Francis ordered as he saw the soaking straw mop on Arthurs head.

"I'm sorry, I thought I was a grown adult living in my own house. Clearly I was wrong. Any other orders you want to give me, Mummy France?"

"_Oui_, dry your damn 'air!"

Francis grabbed the tea towel from him shoulder and launched at Arthur, grabbing him by the head and rubbing.

"Oi! You! What?! That's a tea towel, you pillock!"

"You 'ave already been in 'ospital once today, Arthur." He reminded him "Take care of yourself properly!"

Arthur stopped struggling, but the waves of irritation flowed from him freely.

"Don't you glare at me!" Francis scolded "If little baby Arthur knew 'ow to take care of 'imself, Mummy France wouldn't be 'ere now, would 'e?"

"Fucking hate you."

"_Oui, oui_. Shut up and eat, your dinner's getting cold."

* * *

"Get out of bed!"

"Fuck off!"

"I swear to God, Arthur, if you don't get up right now, I am going to come in there and molest you until you do!"

"FUCK."

Arthur was not a morning person. However, it hadn't been morning for a few hours now. Sick of amusing himself – not to mention cleaning up Arthurs messy house alone – Francis was putting the boot in.

"Its like I'm living in the 12th fucking century!" Arthur fumed as he pulled on a long-sleeved shirt "Shall I go out and milk the cow now, or draw water from the fucking well?"

"Both! And while you're there, get some bacon, three goose eggs and a bottle of disinfectant."

"Anything else, your highness?"

"I will write you a list."

Francis shut the door and let him change in peace. Hearing the house phone ringing, he sprinted down the hall to catch it.

"'Allo?"

"France?"

"Ah, Germany! What can I do for you?"

"I called to check on England," Ludwig managed to sound both concerned and surprised "It's not like him to leave meetings early."

In the background, Francis could hear Felliciano sputtering about ('Hey, hey, Germany, say hi for me too, okay Germany?' 'Shut the hell up, West is on the phone!' 'Whaaat?! Why are you being so mean?!' 'Both of you, please calm down, Mr. Germany's call is long distance!').

"Merci, Germany, 'e will be fine. The doctor 'as ordered 'im to take a few days off, that is all."

"Really? It isn't serious?"

"_Non_, of course not. Why would you think that?"

"Well… you're there." Was the blunt response.

Was it that surprising? He and Arthur had been in each others pockets for centuries.

"_Oui_, I am staying to make sure the idiot does not kill 'imself with warm beer and disgusting British food."

There was a brief silence on the line.

"_Ja_, okay." Was the deep-throated answer "I will call again in a few days."

With that, he hung up, leaving Francis listening to the dial tone. He put the phone down. While it wasn't unknown that Britain and France were closer than they had been in a long time, Francis didn't suppose he was fooling Ludwig. He knew he was an essentially selfish person, and he was sure others knew it too, so him coming to stay with Arthur would be a pretty clear indication that something was wrong. As the handset his the receiver, Francis noticed Arthur standing beside him.

"Who was that?"

"_Mon cher_, you scared me 'alf to death! 'Ow does such a loud little man walk so quietly?!"

"And the phone?"

"It was Ludwig. It was 'is meeting, remember? He wanted to know why you went 'ome."

"What did you say?"

"That the doctor ordered you 'ome, which 'e did."

Arthur huffed, scratching his neck. Francis noticed that his clothes were oddly baggy. Had he lost weight?

"Well?" Arthur asked "Weren't you going to make a list?"

"_Non_, I will come with you." He insisted "You will just lose it."

"Feel free to go home any time, Froggy."

"Get you coat, and bring an umbrella. I know what your cockamamie British weather is like."

* * *

Francis watched Arthur carefully as they mooched around the market. He had changed – the differences were subtle, so much so that he was sure no-one would notice unless they were looking. His shoulders were ever so slightly slumped as he walked, as if they were too heavy for him to hold up properly, and he stared at things with a look of complete and utter disinterest. Even when he smiled, his lips were closed and his eyes were dull. He moved slower. He didn't yell as much. He didn't lose his temper as often. He spent three minutes looking at a can of baked beans.

"'Allo, space cadet!" Francis called to get his attention "I will buy those beans for you if you want them that badly."

Back to his senses, Arthur slammed the beans back down on the shelf and stormed off to the wines and spirits aisle. Whatever he picked up, Francis put back.

"What the hell!" he declared "Cease your infernal games, Francis! I'm getting a drink!"

"_Non_, you are not." Francis corrected "It will aggravate your condition."

"_You're_ aggravating my condition! Go home! Fuck off back to France! Get out of my face! I'm a grown fucking man, and I can decide what I do with my life, I don't need you hovering over me like mother. Fucking. GOOSE!"

Arthur panted, out of breath from screaming. Francis took it in stride. His composure broke, however, when fat tears started rolling down the small mans face. Spluttering, he furiously wiped them with is sleeves.

"God, why-why am I crying?" he choked, trying to back away from Francis.

He wouldn't let that happen. He grabbed Arthurs shoulders gently and pulled him into a soft embrace.

"It does not matter why, _mon ami._ Go ahead and cry."

"I don't want to!"

"I know."

He broke down entirely then, falling against Francis and crying like he hadn't since he was a small child. The larger man supported him, ignoring the looks and glares of those around them.

* * *

You know what makes a fun story of an afternoon? Bursting into tears in the middle of Tesco for no reason! But seriously, depression's a bitch (personal experience). I don't know if this is the kind of story Lou0 has in mind when she think FRUK (in fact, I seriously doubt it, the perv), bit its how I imagine their relationship.

Hope you enjoyed it (can you 'enjoy' stories about depression?) enough to look out for future chapters.


	2. Chapter 2 Guess Who?

A crappy day at work and two ciders later, this happened. Very little plot progression, but a bit of character development, for those who like that kind of thing. On a side note, I'm shocked (and thrilled) by how many people are favouriting/following this after only one chapter. I'll try not to let you down!

* * *

**Chapter 2. Guess Who?**

"Get off."

"_Non_."

"Get off."

"_Non_."

"I will pay you good money to get off."

"We are in a global recession_, mon ami_, you do not 'ave good money."

Arthur had made the mistake of taking a nap on the sofa, stretched out on his belly, with the tv playing to itself. He awoke rather abruptly when Francis planted himself on the small of his back, laptop perched on his legs. While he could certainly handle himself in a fistfight against the willowy European, he found himself at a disadvantage now, and wasn't able to lift Francis off. An annoying enough situation, made all the more horrid by the bottom-of-the-barrel scum screaming contest that was _The Jeremy Kyle Show_ starting with abandon on the tv.

"Oh God, it's the American version!" Arthur shrieked "Francis, if you've got any mercy in your lacy, lily scented frog heart, you'll change the fucking channel!"

"Hm. I will think about it."

"I hate you so much!"

Arthur grabbed the pillow from under his head and used it to cover his ears as best he could, but it just couldn't drown out the awful. Francis seemed to get annoyed by it quickly enough as well, flicking it over to the BBC.

"Thank you, merciful god!"

"You are welcome."

"I wasn't addressing you! And while we're on the subject, GET THE HELL OFF ME."

"'Old still." Francis ordered as he tapped away at the keyboard "I am using the wifi."

"And why do I have to keep still for that?"

"Because your bubble ass my making my screen bounce."

"Your bubble head is making your screen bounce!"

Francis adjusted his weight, pinning Arthur further.

"What are you doing anyway? I thought you were taking some time off work?"

"I am doing research." Francis told him "They 'ave discovered that low levels of serotonin and melatonin in the brain contribute 'eavily to the depressive state. I am finding out how to increase them."

Arthur fell silent. He knew the doctor had told Francis what was wrong with him, even before his little melt-down in the supermarket. He didn't want Francis knowing. He didn't want anyone knowing. He wanted to ignore it until it went away. Instead, that silky-haired frog bastard had all but moved in with him, filling his castle with the stench of cologne and fru-fru cooking. It actually made him chuckle to think about it – an Englishmans home is his castle until it's invaded by the French. It really was like the Middle Ages all over again.

"Sunlight and exercise." He muttered into the pillow.

"Hm?"

"Sunlight and exercise." He repeated a little louder "Are known to increase serotonin and melatonin in the brain."

Francis audibly groaned.

"Fucking exercise." He spat, as if he had said a filthy word "Doctors are obsessed with fucking exercise. It's like the fucking leeches all over again. You remember leeches, Arthur?"

"Yes."

"Exercise is this millenniums leeches." Francis declared "There is nothing exercise can do that good food, good friends and_ l'amore_ cannot."

"I'll remind you of that 300 years from now when you're as fat as America."

"I will never grow fat, _mon ami_."

"You think so?"

"There is one type of exercise I do enjoy." Francis admitted coyly "And it can involve both good food, good friend and l-"

"Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up shutupshutupshutupshutupshut up!"

France laughed maniacally, wiggling around on the small of Arthurs back and continuing his research.

* * *

"Oh! Did you 'ear?"

"Hear what?"

The bustle of the shopping centre ebbed away naturally around them. Francis flipped happily through the shirts and toes on the rack, occasionally holding one up to the waiting Arthur to see if it would suit. The victim of his vanity was trying to be patient, but his feet were starting to hurt, and he was aching for a hot cup to tea and a scone.

"Guess 'oo is getting married!" Francis sang.

"Uh… Sweden and Finland?" Arthur postured.

Francis pouted .

"They 'ave been married for years, Arthur, pay attention!"

"Really?"

"You were_ at_ the wedding!"

"Was I drunk?"

"Everyone was_, mon cher_."

"Then what do you want from me?"

"Guess again."

Arthur sighed and wracked his brain.

"Austria and Hungary."

"Are you conscious?!" Francis shrieked "Do you sleep through life?! They 'ave been married for centuries! 'Ow do you not know this?!"

"I don't care! And you're making a scene!"

"I am not the one who doesn't know things that are obvious!" Francis scorned "And try this on! Green looks good on you!"

Stood behind the curtain in the changing room, Francis continued their conversation through the fabric.

"Just so you know, it is Ludwig 'oo is getting married."

"Germany?" Arthur was honestly surprised "Who's the… lucky? Girl?"

"Felliciano."

"Ha?"

Arthur stuck his head around the curtain.

"When did that become legal?"

"The law comes into effect November 5th." Francis knew "And the two are getting married November 7th!"

"Huh…" Arthur pulled his head back in "Well, that's not entirely a surprise. Germany is a good fit for Italy."

"You think so?"

"Well, yes." He thought aloud "Germany is sensible, financially stable, emotionally sturdy. I'm not surprised that Italy sunk his claws into him at the first opportunity."

"_Mon Dieu_, you are so unromantic! They 'ave been in love for a very long time, and finally their love is being recognised by the law, for all to see! Is that not _tres magnifique_?"

"Yes, yes, that too." Arthur pulled the curtain back "How's this?"

"Ugh, no, that collar is far too 'igh! You looked like you stepped out of the 1700's. Try the blue one."

With a grimace, Arthur pulled the curtain back closed.

"Anyway, I am glad you are 'appy for them, because we are going to the wedding."

"_Oui, we_. Even if I 'ave to drag you."

"Don't be so melodramatic. If I'm invited, I'll go."

"You are invited." Francis confirmed "Gilbert is inviting everyone in the entire world." He laughed "And I don't just mean nations."

"Oh? That's actually a little surprising. Wasn't Prussia formed by the Teutonic Knights?"

"_Oui_, but times 'ave changed, mon ami, Gilbert is just 'appy his stuffy little brother 'as found love."

The curtain withdrew again.

"Good lord! You look like a little American. Take that off _immédiatement_!"

Arthur grumbled and pulled it back.

"Try the white one." Francis ordered.

"What happened to 'all your shirts are white, get one colour in your closet!'?"

"I over estimated your ability to wear clothes."

"Says the KING of getting naked!"

"I'm sorry, was that an insult? Honhonhonhon!"

Arthur threw the curtain open, cheeks ablaze.

"Don't you _dare_ get naked in the middle of the Westfield Centre!"

"Why not? It would brighten up the otherwise dreary day of you morose English moles to gaze upon such beauty!"

They were kicked out. Properly escorted, by security, to the exit. Francis had forgotten how prudish the English were.

"Stop fucking laughing! It's not funny!"

"I cannot 'elp it, _mon ami." _Francis managed to choke between laughs "Come, let us go to Oxford Street instead."

"Let's not!"

* * *

Arthur fell asleep early. Francis noticed that he slept a lot. Arthurs head lay in Francis' lap, late night tv playing quietly in the background as Francis continued his research from earlier. The internet was a mine of contrasting and completely useless information, much of which just served to make him mad ('get over it'? Oh, is _that_ all he needs to do?_ Imbecile_!), but he continued anyway, at a loss of any other source of information. What disturbed him most, without question, were the pro-suicide sites he came across, urging the depressed and vulnerable to end their lives in terrible ways. It made him sad – the lives of the people were short enough… He was glad Arthur was so old fashioned, nose stuck in musty books about fairies and magic swords coming out of lakes, rather than this vitriol.

He tried to avoid the statistics of how many people with depression committed suicide, partly because they were wildly unreliable, partly because he just didn't want to think about it – whenever he saw those green eyes and mussy blonde thatch, he could still see the boy Arthur had been, centuries ago, cape clad and covered in dirt, chasing after Francis with bare feet. He couldn't help, though, but check Arthurs forearms. After everything he had read online, the thought wouldn't leave him alone. To his great, great relief, there were no marks on his pale skin. He wanted to believe that it wasn't that bad, despite what the doctor had said. There was nothing big about Arthur that suggested he was sick. Just a lot of little things. A lot of little things…

The Skype started to ring, startling Francis, who hurried to silence it, turning the volume right down.

"Francy-pants!" Gilbert screamed in his usual fervour "It is I, the awesome PRUSSIA! Don't tell me you are still hanging out in England with that stick-in-the-mud Arthur!"

"Keep your voice down, it is nearly midnight 'ere!" Francis scolded his friend, quietly but firmly "And yes I am, and 'e is sleeping, so kindly 'ush!"

"Whaaa? Why are you still there? Isn't that loser over his cold yet?" Gilbert continued, albeit more quietly.

"_Mon ami_, it is not that simple…"

Seeing Francis' sombre reaction, Prussia sobered up a little.

"So West was right." He reasoned "There is something seriously wrong with him."

"Oui." Francis admitted "It is…"

He checked to make sure Arthur was still sleeping.

"It is depression, Gilbert." He revealed.

"Is that it?"

"What do you mean, 'is that it?' Isn't that enough?"

"Lots of people have depression, Francis, we're in a global recession! Besides, his economy is coming out of this pretty well. If anyone has reason to be depressed, it's-"

"_Britain_ is not _depressed_,_ Arthur_ 'as _depression_!" Francis clarified, a little angrily "It is not the same thing!"

"What, like… just him?"

"_Oui_, Gilbert, just 'im." Francis sighed, tired after a long day, and stroked Arthurs hair gently "I am staying with 'im for a while, until 'e feels better. The doctor was pretty clear that 'e shouldn't be alone for a while."

Gilberts expression was hard to read – he was serious, and clearly thinking, perhaps a tad uncomfortable. It seemed to take him forever to speak.

"You are – you both – coming to the wedding, right?"

"_Oui._ I am booking the flight tomorrow."

"Make sure you do!" Gilbert ordered "I, the AWSOME Prussia, have things to do! I'll talk to you soon, Francy-pants!"

The Skype disconnected. Francis noted then how cold it had become, and gently woke Arthur to put him to bed properly.

* * *

A short chapter where not much happened. For those who made it this far, I'll give you a sneak peak of the next chapter - it's the wedding! And I guarantee that more will definitely happen, including the revelation of what Prussia was really thinking - and it may not be what you think!


	3. Chapter 3 Confidentials

Internet at work has been down since Monday - its amazing how we've come to take its presence for granted. Time passes so slowly when you can't check your email...

Anyway, I lied in the epilogue to my last chapter - turns out chapter 4 will be the wedding, not chapter 3. Oh well. Better to have a proper build up than skip important character development. Moving on, please enjoy chapter 3.

* * *

Confidentials

"I swear to god, Arthur, if you do not pull yourself together, I am going to leave you 'ere!"

Despite his threat, Francis didn't move, but stood leant on one leg with his arms crossed, as the fellow airplane passengers filed out of the terminal. Perched on the deliberately uncomfortable plastic seats with his head in his hands, breathing deeply, was Arthur.

"I will never understand your apprehension to flying." Francis muttered "'Ow on earth did you invade over 90% of countries when you 'ate to fly?"

"By sea!" Arthur barked, stomach turning "And 'apprehension' is the wrong word!"

"So what is the right word?" Francis asked, although truth be told he didn't care.

"HATE! Despise, loathe, dislike, at odds with, not fond off, would rather not-"

"_Oui, oui_, your vocabulary is vast and pointless. Now get up, you're wrinkling your suit."

Arthur glared at him. He grabbed his suit bag and threw it at Francis. The guards shot them a look that said they weren't going to put up with their shit, and Francis decided not to play.

"Gilbert is waiting for us in the arrivals lounge." Francis reminded him, grabbing his arm to pull him up "Recompose yourself in the car."

Arthur got up, but dragged his feet the entire way through customs.

"Business or pleasure?" the customs inspector asked as he took a look through their bags.

"Neither." Britain groaned "We're here for a wedding."

"_Ja_?" the inspector gave them both the once over, blushing in awkwardness "Well, you make a good looking couple, congratulations."

"What, no!" Arthur spluttered.

"Ohonhonhonhon, don't be so shy, Cherie." Francis started to tease immediately, slapping the smaller man on the arse "We don't 'ave to 'ide our love now, we are getting married!" He turned to the inspector with a sly smile "The bride, 'e is the blushing type."

When Gilbert convinced the guards to let him go to customs to see what was taking the two so long, he found Arthur with his hands around Francis' neck, face completely ablaze, while the Frenchman was laughing his head off, while the guards were completely aloss of what happened.

"Hey, you losers!" he called to them "Cut out the old married couple routine you're doing and get in the damn car! There is nothing awesome about parking tickets!"

* * *

"So you and eyebrows will be staying at my place." Gilbert continued to talk as they drove down the autobahn "West's place has been taken over by the Mediterranean lot, so he's taking refuge with us too."

"_Mon ami_, when did you get your own place? You never told me this!"

_"Ja_, I was planning to have an awesome home-warming party to christen my awesome new house with awesomeness, but then West and Feli announced their engagement. As best man, it would have been totally un-awesome of me steal their limelight, even if my new awesome house really is just that awesome."

"Please, stop talking."

"What's wrong with you, Eyebrows?"

"Ignore 'im, 'e is grumpy because 'e doesn't like to fly."

Gilbert burst out laughing, declaring that to be 'awesome.' Arthur wondered whether or not Prussia actually knew what 'awesome' meant, or if he was just so used to using the word that it had become like blinking. In the front passenger seat, Francis used the rear-view mirror to preen.

"Oh," Arthur remembered "Gilbert, we didn't bring any presents. I wanted to bring a terrine, but Francis was against it. Is there anything Germany and Italy particularly want?"

"What's a terrine?" Gilbert asked.

"You put soup in it." Francis told him as he pulled his hair into a ponytail.

"Sounds gay."

"Well, you brother _is_ marrying a man."

Taking a moment for the thought to click in his head, Gilbert burst out laughing again.

"You're right!" he declared "That's awesome! We'll buy a terrine and fill it with manly beer! West will love it!"

"_Mon Dieu_, don't be a pig!"

Gilberts house wasn't quite what one would expect of the excitable German – it was traditional and practical, with clean straight lines and a well-kept garden. Arthur didn't know Gilbert well enough to know if it was his habit, or if the place was so clean because his brother was staying, but it rather pleasant. A couple of large hairy dogs ran about happily in the large walled garden.

"What a pleasant place!" Francis concurred as they got their bags out of the car "_Es Tres Magnifique!" _

"Thanks, Franny! Its maximum awesomeness surprises even me!"

Prussia turned to England with an expectant look.

"Yes, it's very nice." He agreed "Your garden is especially nice. Do you have a gardener?"

"Nah, I do it myself, that's why it's so awesome! I have crazy spare time now that I'm no longer a country. You should try it." He hinted.

Gardening, or not being a country? Any wry asides were forgotten as the door opened, and Austria walked out.

"Ah." He noticed them "You're here. Fantastic."

He strolled past France without a second glance, going right up to England.

"Elizaveta wants to talk to you." He reported "When you're free. She's a little stressed on account of all this wedding mess, so you best not keep her waiting."

"Where are you going, Roddy?" Prussia asked.

Austria huffed angrily, putting his hand on his hips and swishing his head around.

"That idiot Romano completely ruined my music list for the reception!" he whined "I will _not_ have euro-pop playing at Ludwigs wedding! I am going to find some better music, even than my last list, or beat that tasteless Italian to death with a copy of Beethoven's 5th symphony! Either way, I must go out."

"_Ja, ja,_ have fun with that."

Austria got into his car without another word. Francis and Arthur followed Gilbert inside the house – with Roderich and Elizavetta staying here too, they would have to share a room, which Arthur wasn't too happy about, especially as Francis gave his trademark perverted chuckle and suggestive eye-brow wriggling. Gilbert suggested Arthur should go and find Elizavetta right away, so he and Francis could catch up without their filters on – and a gentleman wouldn't want to be around for that, that was for sure. Wondering the halls looking for the lady country, the first person Arthur found was a very pale looking Ludwig.

"Hello, Germany." He greeted "Getting excited?"

"Wa?!"

Ludwig startled, as if he hadn't noticed him, eyes wide.

"Oh, England. When did you arrive?"

"Just now. You okay?"

Germany smiled, clearly flakily.

"Yes. I'm fine. Thank you." He stood up suddenly, wiping his hands on his trousers "I have to, uh… I have to go. Lots to do…"

"I'm sure."

"Okay…bye."

He brushed past Arthur and down the hall, wandering off. He supposed it was just wedding nerves – he had known other grooms get a little funny before the big day. Arthur kept up his search, find Evizavetta in the kitchen, icing a large cake. It was overdone and elegant in a way Arthur knew only Italians to be capable of. He rapped his knuckles on the door to get her attention. Sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, she even had icing on her nose.

"Oh, Arthur!" she greeted in her usual happy-go-lucky manner "Welcome! Did you see Roderich?"

"Yes, actually."

She laughed, putting down the icing bag and wiping her hands on her apron.

"I swear, he's being so pernickety about this wedding, it's as if we were getting married all over again! Although this is Ludwig and Feliciano we're talking about, so I can understand." She clapped her face him her hands, blushing "I feel like my daughter is marrying my nephew. It's lovely!"

Arthur couldn't help but be touched by her joy.

"Yes, I'm very happy for them." He admitted.

Hungarys smile faded, replaced by a serious expression Arthur couldn't read. She marched forward suddenly, pinning the small man against the counter.

"Which brings me to why I want to talk to you." She said seriously.

"Wha…?"

Arthur thought it over for a minute, trying to think about what she could be so serious over. Did she think Arthur was going to try and step in or something?

"You have nothing to worry about." He assured her "What Germany and I had is long, long over! Why, it's been centuries! I really am happy for him and Italy."

"That's not it."

She looked at him closely, examining his every feature. Arthur wasn't quite sure how to react.

"How are you?" she asked.

"What?"

She backed off a little, her eyes softening.

"Gilbert told me." She admitted "About you depression."

"He… how did he know?"

"Francis."

"Of-fucking-course."

"Don't be mad, Arthur." She urged, gently placing a hand on his shoulder "He had a good reason to tell me."

"Reason being?" Arthur snapped, pulling his shoulder away.

She just smiled patiently.

"He thought you might like to talk to someone who knows how you're feeling."

"What?"

Still smiling, Hungary gestured to the table, inviting Arthur to sit down. She sat across from him, hands folded neatly in her lap.

"It took me a long time to realise something was really wrong." She said softly "At first, I thought I was just having some bad days – the weather was bad, I burned dinner, I was hormonal, you know, life things. Before I knew it, I was spending all day in bed, avoiding all my friends, bursting into tears for no reason…" she looked sadly into her own memories "I had such dark thoughts, felt like I was worthless. I didn't believe anyone cared for me, that they wouldn't even notice if I just disappeared. Nothing I did was right. Everything was overwhelming. I couldn't…" she looked back at Arthur "Ringing any bells with you, Arthur?"

He couldn't respond. Her description was dead on.

"Gilbert realised something was wrong even before I did. He sat me down with Roderich and we talked it out. That's when I realised how bad I had been feeling. I wasn't just sad. There was no name for it back then… it was a very long time ago."

"No name… how long ago are we talking about?"

Hungary smiled.

"A gentleman never asks a lady her age!" she scolded playfully, although her smile faded slightly "Roderich has been my rock through it all. People think he's self-centred, but they don't know how sweet he really is. He went with me to the doctors every time, and when I was finally diagnosed, he held my hand the whole time. I still have days when I just can't cope, and he really comes through for me, although it's been a while since I had an 'episode.'"

"I had no idea." Arthur said humbly "You always seemed to be so happy."

"Why would you? People with mental illness don't look any different from anyone else. You and I have never been really close, even when we weren't at war with each other. Trying to be happy was the hardest part of all, to pretend everything was okay."

"Ms. Hungary…"

"Now, I know I can't do much for you." She told him "But I'll do what I can. I've been dealing with this longer than you, so this lady knows what she's talking about!"

"The only thing I want to know is how to get rid of it." Arthur told her bluntly "So that I can stop feeling sorry for myself and feel like me again!"

She smiled sadly again.

"You don't 'get rid of it.'" She explained "You just learn how to cope, in your own ways. And you won't start feeling like 'you' again until you stop trying to push what you're feeling away and take possession of it. Talking therapy really helps me during my dark times, and I know Estonia prefers medication."

"Estonia? Really?"

"Depression affects more people than you would think. There are over 200 nations, Arthur, did you think you were the only one?"

"I… didn't really think about it." He admitted.

"That's alright." She placed a hand on his shoulder "I'll do whatever I can for you, but you must promise me something in return – make sure to take your pills until you find something that works for you. And don't underestimate how important having someone beside you is going to be, even if it is France."

With a chorus of over-the-top laughter, Gilbert and Francis fell into the kitchen. Gilbert immediately froze, looking ready to turn tables and run, until Elizavetta smiled at him, letting him know it was okay.

* * *

Surrounded by Germans – and France – Arthur was happy to go to bed and sleep off his jetlag. His happy sleep was disturbed very abruptly by strong hands taking his shoulders and shaking him awake.

"Mein got, wake up, Britain!" Germany hissed.

"What? What?! I say, knock that off!"

Arthur angrily slapped his hands away. Germany immediately clapped a hand over his mouth and 'shushed' him, gesturing to the still sleeping France beside him. How light-sleeper France hadn't woken up when the far heavier Germany clamboured onto the bed, he didn't know. England sighed.

"What is it, Germany? Its 2.30 in the morning, and you're getting married later, remember?"

"Britain, you and I have been both good friends and worst enemies for a very long time." Germany said in his usual earnest way, grabbing Englands hand "And I value and respect you opinion, both as a man and as a nation, so I _must_ ask you!"

"Uh… okay…?"

"Am I making the right decision?" he fretted "Is getting married the right thing to do? What if I'm making a terrible mistake?"

Arthur could've laughed. With a smile, he pulled his hand back and bobbed Germany on the top of the head.

"Of course you are, Kraut!" he assured "How long have you and Italy been together? Nearly 100 years?"

"_Ja,_ but we weren't always lovers-"

"And didn't you have this exact same crisis when you did become lovers? Didn't you call me in the middle of the night to ask me if it was morally defensible?"

"I…yes…"

"And didn't everything work out for the best?"

"…_Ja. Ja_, it did."

Germany was starting to look embarrassed.

"Pre-wedding jitters are perfectly natural." He went on "Getting married is a big step, afterall. But if anyone can handle it, you can!"

"Really? You really think so?"

"Of course, would I lie to you? Your relationship with Italy may be a complete mystery to me, but it's clear you love each other."

"Ja, I do love him." Germany confirmed, looking a little comforted.

"Then what more is there to say, old chap?" he patted Germany on the shoulder "This time tomorrow, all these concerns will seem silly. You'll see. Big day nerves, I promise."

"Britain, I… I feel better." And he did look relieved "Thank you. I'll let you go back to sleep."

He got off the bed, rocking it significantly.

"Sorry to disturb you."

He left the room, closing the door softly. Almost immediately, Francis grabbed Arthurs head and pushed him back into lying position.

"Fucking Germany, two in the fucking morning, if it wasn't 'is wedding day I'd fucking kill 'im!" he muttered angrily, pinning Arthur to the bed by putting his hand around his shoulder "'Ow is 'e Gilberts brother, I ask you!"

Arthur couldn't help but chuckle, soon being rocked back to sleep by the steady rhythm of Francis' breathing.

* * *

So Hungary also has depression. That may not go down well with some people. I'm actually a Hungary fan, and I wanted a sympathetic character that Arthur could talk to seriously. I also like to think that Austria really treasures her... And those of you wondering what Englands relationship with Germany is all about - study some history! Britains royal family was considered to be more German until WWI (King George was Kaiser Wilhelms cousin). Please look forward to chapter 4!


	4. Chapter 4 The Wedding

This one's a little longer than the other chapters, but since the chapters are kinda short, I'm sure you won't mind. I haven't been to many wedding in my time. Does it show? Also, apologies to anyone who speaks German.

* * *

4. The Wedding

Although calmer, Ludwig was clearly still nervous. It was actually kind of cute seeing him flustered, pink cheeked and darting about, trying to remember the million and one things he thought he needed to remember, most of which had been taken care of by his brother, Roderich or Elizavetta. Despite feeling quite useless, both Arthur and Francis were up with the rest of the wedding party, milling around and getting themselves ready.

"Francis, you git, you are not wearing a thong to a wedding!"

"But _mon ami,_ 'ave you forgotten the age-old tradition of the wooing of the bridesmaids?"

"The closest thing to a bridesmaid there's going to be are Lichtenstein and Seychelles, the flower girls – one's your 'daughter', and the other will get you shot by Switzerland!"

"…You may 'ave a point."

"May?"

"Ah, what about Romano?" Francis said hopefully.

"Well, I admire your determination, but you really need to stop beating that dead horse." Arthur said earnestly "And put some damn pants on!"

"_Ja_, Franny, there's plenty of time to get naked at the reception!" Gilbert piped in as he walked past their open door before cackling his way down the hallway.

Francis joined in the cackling, and Arthur threw a pair of boxers at his face before heading down to the kitchen. He offered to help make some breakfast, but was promptly kicked out by a irate Elizavetta – turns out she's not much of a morning person. He wondered about a bit before he found Ludwig smoothing his hair back in the hallway mirror.

"Looking spiffy, old chap." He complimented "You always did look sharp in a good suit."

"Britain, guten morgan." He greeted, a little awkwardly "Sorry again about last night."

"Oh, don't worry about that, all water under the bridge. You feeling better?"

"_Ja,_ actually, I-NOT AGAIN!"

A clump of hair sprung out defiantly from his head. With a groan of aggravation, he turned back to the mirror, but the same clump of hair continued to refuse to do what it was told.

"Every day for hundreds of years I have been able to do this without incident, but today, of all days, it does this!" he declared.

Arthur couldn't help but laugh. He grabbed the comb and led Ludwig to the nearest bathroom, running it under the tap for a minute and beckoning him to sit on the side of the bath while he used it to smooth down his hair. The large man blushed.

"Don't be embarrassed!" Arthur urged "This is an ancient technique used by the British for centuries to control their fly-away tufts of hair. Why, without this technique, my very own hair would be an absolute birds nest!"

Ludwig thought about his answer carefully.

"Is that so?" he settled on.

"There, all done! A good job, if I do say so myself."

Hair tamed, Ludwig stood up, adjusting his shirt.

"West, stop cheating on your fiancé and get in the car, we're leaving!"

* * *

The venue was very tasteful, and oddly romantic, considering the conservative nature of the groom – perhaps it was the brides choice? The ceremony was going to take place in the ruins of a burnt out church, which long since had its thick stone walls overgrown with moss and wild flowers – the aisle and seating area had been roped off with gentle strings of fairy lights and paper roses, and each seat was labelled with exactly who would be sitting where (no doubt that was Ludwigs doing). In the field beside the ruin, the grass had been cut short, and a gazebo erected for the caterers to cook in, with 2 dozen round tables and chairs nestling in the grass.

"What if it started raining?" Arthur wandered as he admired the setting.

"We are not in your cockamamie country." Francis pointed out "'Ere on the continent, the weather doesn't change from one minute to the next like God is schizophrenic."

"Really? It's that bad?" Gilbert wondered.

"Worse! Last time I was there, in a single day we 'ad rain, sunshine, gale force winds, more rain, snow and thick fog, in that order, in the space of an hour!"

"You're exaggerating." Arthur accused.

"I most certainly am not." Francis insisted "The day we left, it was foggy when we got in the car, rained all the way to 'Eathrow, and was sunny when we took off."

"So?"

"So, that weather is normal in your country! It is not so anywhere else!"

Gilbert found the whole thing hilarious, swearing to take his next holiday in England so he could see its awesome weather for himself. Austria gave them all annoyed looks and asked them to be serious, perhaps expecting too much from the excitable Prussian. The guests started to arrive, most of them nations, but not all, and milled about, chatting happily with their complimentary glasses of champagne. The brides party arrived, hiding behind the gazebo until everything was ready. Arthur and Francis went to say hello, and while Romano and Francis engaged in their usual cat-and-mouse routine, Arthur spoke with Kiku. Perhaps 'spoke' is the wrong word, as the poor man wore the look of being completely overwhelmed, and his brown eyes pleaded for help. He jumped at the chance to grab a cup of tea before the ceremony.

The ceremony itself was the usual affair. Everyone sat in their allocated seats and a revering hush fell upon them as the music played. Lichtenstein and Seychelles, wearing matching blue and pink dresses, scattered petals across the aisle as they walked down in time to the music. It was Roderich that accompanied Feliciano down the aisle, back strait and perfectly poised, rather than Romano, who might have been likely to pick his little brother up and run away. Feliciano himself was oddly composed, not his usual fidgety self, and smiled calmly, eyes fixed on Ludwig. He wore a pure white tuxedo, ironed and spotless (Arthur supposed wearing a dress would have been a little much, even for Italy). Both men blushed as Roderich gave Ludwig Felicianos hand, with the blonde seeming considerably calmer than he had at 2.30 that morning. Holding hands, with steady voices, they exchanged their vows, and regardless of how you might have felt about either man, one couldn't doubt they meant it.

With a round of applause, the party moved to the waiting field. Arthur hung back while the more excitable nations rushed to congratulate the couple. He couldn't help but chuckle as he saw Switzerland hovering around his little sister, casting his usual glares at any boys who got too friendly. On her part, she either didn't notice or didn't mind, chatting happily and trying to include her brother in the conversation. Francis was equally fussing over Seychelles, who managed to look both happy and horrified, as she usually did when talking to France. With a sudden thud, America lent against the tree England was stood under.

"S'up?" he greeted.

"Ok, where the hell did you get a burger?"

Alfred didn't reply. He chomped away at it a moment before hitting on a thought.

"Want some?" he offered, holding it out to him.

"No. Even if I liked that horrid stuff, half of its already been in your mouth. Take smaller bites, you idiot."

"Uh, okay…sure."

He went back to his burger. He was being kind of quiet, which was concerning.

"Nice ceremony, wasn't it?" England tried to get him talking.

"I kind of at two minds about it." America admitted "Gay marriage is still a big issue at my place, so I'm not sure how to feel about it. On the one hand, they're my buddies, and I'm happy for them, but on the other it's kinda gross."

England laughed.

"Just try not to think about it too much, or your brain might melt."

America didn't laugh. He had an odd look on his face, and was watching England closely.

"I say, are you alright?" Arthur asked "You're looking positively green! You're not choking on all that beef, are you?"

"No, I'm fine." Alfred assured "What about you? Are you…okay?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"No reason." America said a little too quickly, eyes still locked on Arthur "Just…uh…asking. Y'know!" he laughed awkwardly "We are in Germany, so I thought it might bring back some bad memories for you, or…something."

"No reason it should. I've had far more positive experiences in Germany than negative ones." He laughed through his nose "I suppose to you, the world wars felt like they were only yesterday. Us older nations don't dwell on things like that."

"Ha ha, is that so?"

What? No argument? No criticizing him for being old or calling Germany a Nazi? Was he ill?

"Excuse me~"

"Hey, Mattie, dude, what's up!" America cheered.

Canada had apparated, as was his way, from the ether, and was stood next to them. Somehow, he had gotten his polar bear into a suit, and it was kind of adorable.

"Japan is taking pictures, and he'd really like it if we could all pose for him, if that isn't too much trouble, I mean." Matthew relayed "You know, if you aren't busy, that is."

Arthur swore he was fading into the ether as they spoke.

"Sure, why not." He agreed, as if anyone was going to take pictures at a wedding, it was going to be Kiku "Where does he want us?"

"Over here."

He led them to a flower covered wall at the back of the ruin. Arthur pretended not to notice as Canada shot America an angry look. Kiku was in his element, equipped with his fanciest camera, ordering people into the typical wedding poses: bride and groom; bride and groom with grooms family; bride and groom with brides family; groomsmen and bridesmaids; groomsmen, bridesmaids and their dates; any children that happened to be about, whether they were in the wedding party of not; any other families that happened to be about; and finally the G8, with Germany and Italy at the centre. Posed with France, Canada and America, England tried not to punch France in the face, as he knew he was making kissy-faces behind him. Kiku finally stopped when China got so exasperated that he threatened to start a war.

Milling about in a group, Arthur spotted Russia and Canada talking, with Russia petting Kumojiros head. He hadn't realised how similar in height and build the two were. Was America built like that too? Russia just laughed as Kumojiro clapped his jaws over his hand.

"What is it with polar bears and chewing on me?" he wondered "Do I really taste that good?"

"Mr. Kumakichi, that's really mean!" Canada scolded, squeezing his little belly "You let him go!"

"Hold on, I'll handle this." Arthur offered.

He started tickling the plushy white bear, who wriggled uncontrollably before letting go of Russias hand and going for Arthurs.

"Many thanks, Britain." Russia said as he rubbed his sore hand "You have a way with animals."

"Well, if you've tickled one bear, you've tickled them all."

"Speaking of which."

Without warning, Russia threw his arms around Arthur, surprising him immensely, with what was best described as a bear-hug. It went on for far longer than he was comfortable with before Russia let him go, looking him in the eye.

"I don't really understand what's wrong with you." He admitted "But I wish you 'get better soon' anyway."

"Oh…um…thank you…?"

"Da, you get better soon, and maybe to stop casting so many spells will help?"

"Ivan!" Canada hissed, going red "It doesn't work that way!"

"Canada is right." China chimed in "Britain has been crazy for years, now it's just official."

"Gee, China, thank you for your support, as always." Britain retorted.

"You are welcome." Was his strait reply.

Apparently he had left his sarcasm hat at home today. Russia laughed.

"Britain is funny, like normal" he concluded "That makes me happy."

"Excuse me~" Elizabetta sung, grabbing Arthurs arm "I need to borrow this one!"

"You can keep him." China told her "I feel my ability to cook delicious food being drained from me just by his presence."

She drug Arthur over to the bride and groom. Feliciano was holding a large silver tray piled with envelopes. Upon seeing Arthur, he immediately froze.

"Ah, hello, Brtiain." Germany greeted "Did you enjoy the ceremony?"

"_Oui,_ it was _tres romantique_!" Francis answered for him, slipping his arms around Arthurs shoulders and leaning heavily against him "_Mon Angleterre_, were you not moved?"

Raising his arm quickly, he struck Francis in the face with the back of his fist. The taller man stumbled, clutching his nose and swearing. Everyone else started laughing, especially Prussia and Spain, who added insult to injury by pulling his hair and poking him all over.

"The ceremony was lovely." Arthur answered "Congratulations!"

"Thank you. It means a lot to us that you're here. Right, Feliciano?"

Italy noticeably twitched as his name was called.

"Yes, that's right!" he agreed loudly "Because you know that whole world war thing was a very long time ago and even though we're all friends nowitsnotlikei'mscaredofyouanymoreoranythin gsoi'mreallyhappyyoucouldbeatmywe dding-"

"Feliciano!" Germany barked.

"Yes, very happy, thank you!" he shrieked.

"Feliciano, what's wrong with you?" Germany scolded "You're being rude to our guest!"

"I'm sorry." Italy answered earnestly, looking Britain in the eye "I just don't know how to talk to you now. Before, we were enemies, then we were friends, but now I don't know where I stand anymore…"

If nothing else, Arthur could appreciate his honesty.

"We're still friends." He assured him "Our relationship hasn't changed."

"Eh? Really?" Italy seemed immediately cheered "_Fantastico_!"

Handing Ludwig the plate, he threw his arms around Arthur and struck him with the Italian 'double-kiss of death' (at least, that's how the British tended to see it), before trailing off into his usual nonsensical rant that leapt about topics like a flea on a dog that was on fire – the wedding; the weather; what he had for breakfast; his shoes; the weather again; the food; what the pretty girls were wearing; the presents; the food again. Arthur just smiled, pretending he was keeping up with the million words a minute. Ludwig also smiled, putting his hand on his new wifes shoulder as he talked. Arthurs heart was a little touched as he noticed Feliciano lean into him automatically.

"Eh? What's wrong, England?" Feliciano asked, looking a little concerned "You have a funny look on your face?"

"I'm just thinking how good you two look together." He said honestly.

Italy blushed, smiling sheepishly.

"_Si._ I'm very happy."

"Alright, alright, all this public displaying of affection is making me feel barfy." Romano interrupted, shooing Arthur away "Bad enough that my brother is the 'bride', go and get drunk with your idiot friends, you warm beer drinking bastard."

Well, some people never changed. The 'bad touch trio' had disappeared somewhere, so Arthur wandered back into the crowd. Everyone had formed a little champagne drinking clique, and he felt that interrupting one would be too awkward. Everyone seemed so happy with each other, they would probably resent his intrusion. Instead, he walked away from the crowd, leaning against the same tree as before. It was quiet here. The noise and fuss seemed a million miles away. His head got a little fuzzy, like he was dreaming. No-one knew he wasn't there with them. They were having fun without him. They didn't miss him. They didn't even notice. They didn't want him around.

His throat grew painful, and his eyes started to sting. He willed them away, but they refused to listen. He covered his hand with his mouth so no-one could hear the sob escape. He didn't want anyone to see him cry. He turned away from the crowd, determined to head into the woods until he had calmed down, when he felt arms wrap around his waist and pull him back.

"What?! What are you doing?! _Austria_?!"

Austria said nothing to him. He was just taller enough than Britain that he could pull him off his feet.

"Going off on your own isn't going to help you." He said matter-of-factly "You're just going to feel more alone, because you _are_ alone, and it will be worse than before."

Without another word, Roderich hauled Arthur back into the crowd, locating Francis and his friends and practically throwing the man at them.

"Hey, where were you?" Antonio asked in his usual air-head manner "You disappeared on us, _Amigo_."

"I most certainly did not!" Arthur countered "You're the ones who-"

"Oh, shut up and drink some _beer, _you girls!" Gilbert shrieked, slamming a tray down on the table "Except the kill-joy Francis, who is drinking totally un-awesome wine!"

"_Mon dieu,_ you Germans know nothing about fine wine!" Francis scolded as he took his wine glass away from the 3 pints on the tray "Wine is all about_ l'amore_, about finesse, about-"

"LAME!" Antonio and Gilbert sung together.

Francis groaned in exasperation.

"Ugh, you uncultured swine! Arthur, back me up 'here!"

He didn't reply.

"Arthur?"

There had been four glasses on the tray. They had got him a drink. They had expected him. They had wanted him. His throat started to sting again. He felt stupid.

"You see!" Gilbert suddenly shrieked loudly, slamming both hands on the table to bring all attention to him "Your gross disgusting wine is so un-awesome, just the thought of it brings un-awesome tears to the eyes of the former British Empire!"

"That's some pretty bad wine, Amigo."

"It is up to I, the AWESOME PRUSSIA, to fix this mess with the awesome addition of the awesome sweet amber liquid that is BEER!"

Gilbert slammed the pint glass down on the table before Arthur, wearing his usual manic grin.

"There! Are you not immediately soothed?! Is your soul not lifted just by just the near presence of it?"

Arthur grabbed the glass, downed it, and slammed in down the table. The other three stared at him in disbelief.

"Yeah." Arthur finally said "I do feel better."

"AWESOME!" Gilbert shrieked again, grabbing his own glass and doing the same "Drink up, girly-boys, it's totally on!"

* * *

Arthur didn't have another second to himself the entire reception. Whether that was by accident or design wasn't important. After a few rounds, the boys took to the dance floor. Roderich, true to his word, had expunged the europop from the list, but for those who didn't like classic (although he didn't want to admit such people existed), he had unearthed 'popular' music of 'quality', and even those who hadn't had a skinfull were cutting a rug. Since most of the nations were men, they were used to dancing with each other, but it took a few months and photographic evidence before Arthur would admit he had (drunkenly) ended up grinding with Poland. After the sit-down meal, the drinking recommenced, as did the dancing, and Arthur ended up dancing with some unexpected characters, including Turkey, Lichtenstein (keeping his hands respectable – he was drunk, not stupid), Sealand (with the boy standing on his feet) and the bride, with whom he waltzed atrociously.

None of the four drinking buddies remembered how they got back home, or why they were all sprawled around the living room, naked as the day they were born, or whether or not Gilbert had that tattoo yesterday, but that was pretty normal for a wedding. Or a really, really good world conference. Arthurs offer to cook breakfast got him dog-piled by the (thankfully at least somewhat clothed) Gilbert and Antonio, while Francis got busy in the kitchen.

"Dude, you remember the last wedding we went to?" Antonio asked quietly.

"Sure I do! I woke up butt-ass naked with pink hair on a merchant vessel headed for South America! Ah, good times." How Gilbert could both yell and whisper at the same time was truly amazing.

"Feel free to get off me." Arthur groaned "You bastards are fucking heavy."

"No way. If we let you up, you'll try and cook."

"I like to cook!"

"I like turtles, _Amigo,_ that doesn't mean I can swim."

"I hate you. Wait. Wait, that's my phone! Get off me, I need to get that! Where the fuck is it?"

"First to find his phone gets to look though his pictures for last nights blackmail!" Gilbert shrieked, and the two of them jumped off and started to tear the room apart.

From his vantage on the floor, Arthur managed to find in under the couch, but it stopped ringing by the time he fished it out.

"What is this?!" Francis shrieked as he came back into the room with the breakfast plates "This is a worse mess than when I left!"

"Aw, too bad." Antonio cooed, turning to Francis "Hey, is there-"

"Yes, there are tomatoes!"

"Who's calling you so ungodly early the morning after a party?!" Gilbert demanded "He clearly doesn't know how to party properly! We should take him out and teach him!"

"It's America." Arthur reported, clicking though his texts.

"Called it." Gilbert sung.

"So, what does 'e want?" Francis asked as he kicked Antonio until he put the table back the right way up.

"He wants to meet up. He's got a little time before his plane."

Francis seemed concerned.

"'Ow about we all go shopping?" he suggested "It 'as been a while since I went shopping in Germany."

"That's awesome! There's this awesome market in the next town…"

Plans were made, related via the miracle of technology, and after breakfast, the four hung-over shambles got themselves dressed and left. Upon returning to the house (Roderich had had the sense to book a hotel near the venue for the two of them), Elizavetta was furious.

"I am NOT cleaning this!" she shrieked.

_"Ja_…" he agreed entirely "Can we go home now, Lizzy?"

* * *

OMG, character interaction! England and France can only play off each other for so long... Also a peak into the 'dark thoughts' that can sneak up on you when you're suffering from depression. (Not pulling it out of my arse, btw. I have had these thoughts myself at least once). Also, fuck you Spell-check, I will NOT use Americanisms! For those of you enjoying thus far, please continue to enjoy onto the next chapter!

Also, I love feedback. Just saying.


	5. Chapter 5 Friends and Fancy Burgers

Welcome to chapter 5! This is the longest fanfiction I've written yet. While I'm toying over where to take the main storyline, please enjoy this chapters focus on another set of brothers.

* * *

**Friends, Brothers and Fancy Burgers**

It was another bright day, with the chill of the fast approaching winter nipping at their noses and ears. The breeze was helping to alleviate their sore heads, but the four of them together were rowdy and a little too loud, stopping them from nursing themselves properly. It had been commented more than once that they were bad influences on each other, and Arthur couldn't deny there was some truth in it, but they didn't see each other too often, and it was good for the soul to let loose every now and again. The old market that Gilbert took them to was up and going early, as all the good markets are, and the vendors were in full swing. Never one for the cold, Francis had linked his arm with Arthurs and was sticking closer to him than his own clothes. Antonio was already bundled up in his big winter coat (bloody Mediterainians), with a hat and earmuffs, while Gilbert and Arthur seemed to be fine in their light jackets.

"_Mon ami_, 'ow are you not freezing your ass off?" Francis whined to them as he shivered.

"Pfft! Look at you, shivering like a baby!" Gilbert exclaimed "You'd think there was never winter in France!"

"There is never winter in France!" Francis denied completely.

Antonio just laughed.

"It's not even snowing_, amigo_."

"'Cos I am sure _you_ 'ave sooo much experience with cold and snow."

"Stop being such a big girls blouse, Francis." Arthur scorned "It's not becoming of a man, or a nation."

"Your metaphors confuse me, cherie."

The four of them bumbled through the market to the riverfront where they were meeting America. The young nation wasn't waiting alone, having his brother and Japan with him, eating an absurd amount of bagels. Automatically, Gilbert and Antonio started to run toward them, yelling and screeching, and Kiku instantly hid behind Matthew so he wouldn't be jumped on. The mild-mannered nation easily handled the other two leaping at him, but Mr. Kumajiro certainly didn't appreciate it, biting anything that came close enough. Arthur doubted that a Spaniard had ever been bitten by a polar bear, so it was kind of novel. Alfred examined Arthur closely, the same as he had yesterday, until his brother roughly nudged him with his elbow.

"I am torn." Francis admitted as he squeezed Arthurs arm "Matthieu looks so very warm with 'is fluffy jumper that I want to use 'im like an 'ot water bottle, but when again will mon petite lapin be so docile?"

"Alright, let go."

Arthur tried to take his arm back, pulling away from Francis, but he held tight and whined about being cold. Sensing hijinks, Antonio and Gilbert piled on them too.

"Get off, you gits!" Arthur scolded "This isn't dog pile on Britain day!"

"Aren't older nations supposed to be more mature?" Matthew wondered aloud.

"In theory, yes." Japan agreed "But just look at China, and he's over 4000 years old."

"Wow, that's seriously old." America marvelled "How does he not have, like, a million wrinkles yet?"

Meandering through the market, the seven of them (or eight, if you included the bear) were more of a nuisance than anything else. Occasionally they bought something, but mostly they just blocked the stalls – America and Canada marvelled over the 'ethnicness' of everything ('Look at all these sausages just hanging around, that's so weird!' 'Hey, these toys are really made of wood!'), Japan took pictures of everything (like he hadn't had enough of that yesterday), while Spain wandered about trying _all_ the free samples. Prussia took the opportunity to restock his larder, while France stuck to England like he was the last remaining source of heat in the world. America seemed a little too excited to find a stall selling burgers, but pulled a funny face when he bit into it.

"This tastes weird." He postured.

"That's because it's a _real_ burger." Britain pointed out "It's been made with mince, onions and garlic and fried. You won't find any processed garbage or mono-sodium glutamate in there."

"What-whaty whatwhat?"

"Ugh, your idea of a 'real' burger is so bland." France criticised "'Ow about throwing some red peppers in, with creamy Gruyere cheese and vegetables?"

"Dude, that's _not_ a burger!" America insisted.

"Shut up, Francis, you're making me awesomely hungry!"

"With a relish made with fresh tomatoes, extra virgin olive oil and salt and pepper." Spain agreed.

"I hate you both!" Gilbert declared "Now I have to buy ingredients for burgers as well!"

Antonio chased Gilbert back towards the fruit and veg stall to help him pick tomatoes.

"Don't bother to ask if we actually want to eat burgers." Arthur muttered after them.

"Considering all the burgers at your place are laced with horse, I'm not surprised you're off them." Matthew laughed.

"'Orse is a legitimate foodstuff!" Francis fumed "People 'ave been eating 'orses for centuries!"

America and Canada's jaws dropped in horror at the very thought, but Japan nodded sagely.

"Seriously?!" America shrieked.

"Yes, its true." Japan confirmed "It's not eaten in my country, but I ate it on the continent often before my isolation."

Arthur screamed in a way only he was capable off, wrapping his arms around his body and trying the to shake the information from his head. Matthews face was frozen in disgust.

"I don't think I would like to try it." He said honestly.

"You probably have and just don't realise it." Arthur teased.

"It tastes like game." Kumojiro agreed, making the man holding him physically shudder.

A sudden cold wind swept through the market, and Francis somehow stuck even closer to Arthur.

"You wouldn't be cold if you dressed properly." The Brit criticised.

"What? I am perfectly dressed!" Francis hissed "This is the very best designer couture!"

"All style and no substance."

"Better than your ugly attire? What is that, tweed?!"

"Houndstooth."

"Even worse!"

The two bickered away, practically standing on each others feet, not noticing a pair of blue eyes trained on them closely, until his brother elbowed him once again.

"Quit staring." Matthew hissed.

"I can't help it!" Alfred whispered back (as best as he could whisper, anyway) "Why is Francis hanging all over him like that, anyway?"

"Its annoying having a big French-speaking blonde hanging over you all the time." Kumojiro agreed, looking up at Matthew "Who are you?"

"I'm Canada." He sighed.

"Who?"

"All I'm saying!" Alfred went on "I mean, why didn't he come to me if he was feeling down? I know how to cheer people up! Making people happy is what Heroes do!"

"It's not an emotion." Matthew tried to tell him again "It's an illness. You're not a doctor."

"Neither is France! And I don't smell like cheese."

Canada could only sigh.

"If you were ill, you would want Arthur there because he's the one you like most." He explained "Francis is staying with Arthur because they're the closest."

"But they aren't close! They're always fighting!"

"They're neighbours. They've invaded and conquered each other several times. They're best friends as well as enemies… they're practically brothers…" he sighed again "If you can't understand, there's no way I can explain. Not all relationships are simple."

"What you said makes no sense." Alfred said flatly "You're either friends or enemies, you can't be both."

Matthew opened his mouth to try and explain again, but Kiku pulled on his sleeve to get his attention, simply shaking his head, and the blonde closed his mouth.

"The important thing is how to get the idiot frenchie away from Arthur!" Alfred went on "There's no way he's gonna cheer up with someone he hates clinging to him like that!"

"Please, listen when I talk." Matthew mumbled.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Canada."

* * *

Gilbert refused to let anyone back in his house when he remembered what a state it was in. Faster than anyone had ever seen him move, he raced inside and slammed the door, and a cacophony of banging and scraping could be heard for a good five minutes before he opened it again, the only sign of his miniature war against last nights excess a single bead of sweat on his brow.

"Come in, come in, welcome to my awesome home!" he bid.

"We were 'ere last night, idiot." Francis reminded him as he walked in "You better not 'ave thrown out my underwear!"

Gilbert pulled a face.

"If it's not on your person or in your suitcase, I set it on fire."

"Please tell me you didn't expose Ms. Hungary to your undergarments." Kiku urged.

"This is Francis." Arthur pointed out "Lizzy considers herself lucky if she sees him_ in_ his knickers."

"As opposed to being in _'er_ knickers, non?"

Gilbert punched him in the face. No one stopped him.

The impromptu barbecue lasted all evening, with Francis teaching Matthew how to make burgers properly. Each made their own version, and it ended up as a pretty interesting, if meat centred dinner – Antonios burgers were full to the brim with tomatoes and paprika; Gilberts loaded with black pepper and chunks of potato; Kikus were smaller and simply added soy sauce to the base ingredients; and Francis were mixed with red peppers and had a centre with melted cheese. No-one let England in the kitchen. He tried certainly, but they found ways. Concerned for the safety of his awesome new kitchen appliances, Gilbert sacrificed his precious beer and commandeered the assistance of his two dogs, Ralph and Franz, to keep him busy, knowing Britains weakness to animals (especially fluffy ones).

It was late evening before Alfred, Kiku and Matthew left. Antonio stayed a little longer, since Romano was going to be in a completely foul mood now his beloved little brother had married (especially since it was someone he didn't like), and even Boss Spain could only take so much of his little Romano in a bad mood (he was bad enough when he was in a good mood – how many times can you call someone a bastard in a conversation?). Prussia excused himself for an early night, leaving Arthur and Francis to pack their bags for their flight tomorrow.

"Are you alright?" Arthur suddenly asked as he folded away his suit trousers.

"Hm? _Moi_?" Francis smiled at him "I'm perfect. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You were very clingy today." He pointed out "Even for you."

"Ah, _je suis desole_, I must apologise to Alfred next time I see him."

"Alfred?"

"_Oui,_ I underestimated 'im. I thought for certain that 'is inability to read the mood would cause a problem for you today, but I was wrong."

Arthur laughed.

"Yes, he does put his foot in his mouth quite a lot, doesn't he? But you don't need to worry about him – I don't take anything he says seriously."

"_Mon ami_, you are a _terrible_ liar!"

Shut up and pack. We're not running around tomorrow morning because you can't find something!"

"_Oui, oui_."

* * *

Not too long later, across the other side of the planet, Alfred sat in his brothers house, feet up on the coffee table, brow furrowed in agitation. Matthew sat patiently on the armchair beside him, waiting for him to speak.

"Um…"

"I HATE THIS!" he suddenly roared, throwing his arms up theatrically "I feel so useless! I couldn't even talk to Arthur thanks to that fucker Francis hanging all over him! And now he's on the other side of the planet, I can't even talk to him! I know! I'll move to England! How does that sound?!"

"Sounds like a bad idea." Matthew answered honestly.

"Eeeeh?" Arthur sighed "You may be right. I could never get used to all that rain. One shower a day is enough."

"One-"

"I know! How about I send him 200 crates of tea! That bastard loves tea!"

"Why 200?"

"One for every year I've been independent!"

"Has it been exactly 200 years?"

"No, but what does that matter? You think 200 isn't enough?"

"I think it would bother him."

"I know!"

"Again?"

"I'll find 200 jackalopes and ship them to him! How much do you think it would cost to ship a jackalope?"

"I'm pretty sure they don't exist."

"Dude, jackalopes totally exist! I went to this restaurant one time in death valley and they had the head of one on the wall!"

"You're an idiot."

The phone rang. Matthew excused himself to answer it, going into the hallway. Being the big kid he is, Alfred tailed him and listened in on the conversation.

"Hello? Oh, Cuba! Good evening…oh, it's still afternoon there? How's the weather?... ah, that sounds nice…uh, yeah, he's here…no, no, I'm fine…that's really not necessary… thank you, but it's really okay…thank you…you're very kind… I'm sorry…okay, talk to you soon."

As Matthew went to put the phone down, Alfred couldn't help himself.

"COOOMMMIIEEE!" he yelled, causing Matthew to slam the receiver down on the cradle, his entire body going red in embarrassment.

"You fucking idiot!" he cursed "How the fuck are we related?!"

"Dude, calm down, bro. Where's your ice-cream?"

Alfred wandered off to the kitchen. Matthew could strangle him.

"Don't go helping yourself to other people ice-cream!" he scolded, following his idiot brother.

"Matty, dude, why are you still friends with that donkey-eating weirdo?" Al asked as he rooted around through his freezer.

"He's a good friend." Matthew said simply.

"He's a communist."

"That doesn't change the fact that he's a good friend. He's really been there for me over the years."

"What the hell for? You don't have any problems."

Matthew didn't have time to answer before Alfred jumped up in triumph, holding a bag on mince.

"Found it!" he declared.

"Wha… weren't you looking for ice-cream?"

"I figured it out while you were yapping your gums with that communist." Al went on "The only reason Arthur is putting up with Francis is because he was cook nice, right?"

"That's not right at all."

"So I'm gonna learn to make fancy burgers too. Then Arthur won't have to live with someone he hates! I'll totally be the hero, and then he'll owe me, and I can totally use that to broker economic treaties on my favour!"

"You're an idiot."

"So!" he shoved the mince into Matthews hands "Teach me how to make the fancy burgers!"

"What? Me?"

"France showed you, right? You can totally teach me! We'll add some processed cheese and food colouring and stuff to make it even better!"

"Food colouring? What for?" Canada marvelled.

"To cheer England up, of course! We'll do a red, white and blue one and turn it into a union jack! That'll be totally sweet! And then we'll do one twice the size in old glory! Oh, and if there are any left-overs, we can to the Canadian flag. What is the Canadian flag anyway?"

Matthew couldn't help but laugh through his nose.

"You really care about other people, don't you?"

"Of course! That's what heroes do!"

Knowing that there was no arguing with America, Canada agreed to show him how to make the fancy burgers, but he drew the line at the food colouring. He knew that it would probably piss Arthur off more than anything else to receive 200 union jack burgers (again with 200?), but his brother seemed pretty determined, and when he got an idea in his head, no matter how awful and stupid, it was hard to dislodge it. Once the ingredients were cut and weighed, Matthew gave the eggs to his brother to cack into the mixture.

"You can change the amount of onions and garlic in the mix based on your preferences, but always use the right amount of eggs to meat, or the burger will fall apart as it cooks."

Matthew rolled up his sleeves as he washed his hands.

"You have to mix it with your hands. If you try to use a blender, you'll end up with a mush, and you may as well get a McDonalds."

"I like McDonalds." Alfred defended.

"I know you do." Matthew admitted "_Everyone_ knows you do."

"Whaaat? What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

Matthew grabbed the bowel from him and put it down on the counter, getting his hands into the gooey contents.

"Pay attention to this part, it's important. You have the cook the onions before adding them to the mixture or they won't cook properly when you fry them. Once the egg is mixed in properly, you can make the patties, but don't squeeze them too much to all the juice will run out. Are you listening, Al?"

He wasn't listening. He was staring at Matthews arms. Matthew felt his blood drain, head growing light and dizzy. He had forgotten. He started to pull his sleeves down, but Al grabbed his arms and pulled them closer for a better look, strong hands like a vice grip against his wrists. His eyes were cold and analytical as he took in every scar, cut, knick and abrasion on his brothers arms. Most of the strait, clean cuts had long-since healed, but some, just enough, were fresh.

"Al…"

Alfred hit him hard across the face, knocking him off his feet and into the kitchen table, sending the chairs flying. Without a word to his brother, he left, slamming the door behind him. Matthew, taking a moment to come to his senses, got up from the floor, washed the mince and onions off his hands, taking time to dry them properly before going back in to the hall and picking up the phone. His friend picked up after the second ring.

"Hi, Cuba. Can I talk to you?"

* * *

Matthew didn't sleep well. He often woke in the middle of the night, and wondered around the house until he felt tired enough to sleep again. Tonight was no different. If anything, it was worse, as he feverishly tossed and turned before getting up to make himself some toast and tea.

When he heard about Arthurs depression, he had been happy, and he hated himself for that. Not because he wanted Arthur to suffer – the man was like a father to him – but because, for the first time in a long time, he felt like he belonged to something. He knew that these kinds of problems often ran in families, but none of his kin seemed to suffer from the same problems he did. Knowing that his 'father' had depression… it was a connection.

Cuba had listened to him, as he always did, and threatened to beat the shit out of America, as he always did. Matthew didn't know what state he would be in without his precious friend. Being so far away was hard, especially during the dark days, when everything seemed to overwhelm him all at once, but Cuba would always pick up the phone, no matter what the time was, to listen to him.

As the toast popped, Matthew got the butter out the fridge and opened the cutlery drawer. He automatically reached for a knife, but his hand froze when the information reached his brain.

"What?"

All his knives were gone. He looked under the cutlery tray, but they weren't hiding. They weren't in the drawer below. Looking in his other drawers, he found his cooking knives were also missing. So were his peelers, his scissors… and his corkscrew?

"What?"

"I threw them out." Announced the familiar voice behind him.

Matthew turned around. Alfred stood at the kitchen door, looking more serious than his brother had ever seen him, with an absurdly large suitcase at his side.

"Al-"

"I'm mad at you, Matty!" Alfred said immediately "I'm mad that you didn't tell me something was wrong. I'm mad that you chose to confide in that communist instead of me. I'm your brother!" he took a deep breath to compose himself "I'm mad that you've done this to yourself. And I don't understand why! I'm mad, and I'm hurt! Did you want to die? Is that it?"

"Of course not." Matthew muttered "I knew I wouldn't die."

"Then why? I don't understand! Please, explain it to me! I want to know!"

Matthew sighed and smiled at his brother.

"Someone like you can't understand." He told him "It's impossible for you."

"Why?"

"Because of the way you are. You're my brother, but… you _can't _understand, no matter how hard you try."

This answer only seemed to make Arthur mad, and he picked up the suitcase, marching over to Matthew and shoving it in his hands.

"Pack." He ordered.

"What?"

"I'm not going to stay in Canada." Alfred pointed out "So you're coming home with me! I may not understand, but I know I can't trust you to be alone!"

"I…it's two in the morning!"

"So? We're both awake, so why not now?"

The two stared each other down. Matthew was the first to relent.

"You're an idiot." He said calmly "I'm not the same as Arthur. You think you're going to take care of me? You don't even know what's wrong with me. You barely know me at all. How do you think you're going to help me, Al?"

Alfred looked mad and confused.

"I don't know." He admitted "I don't know. But I know that I'm your brother. I know I want to help you. I know I want to do something."

He knocked the suitcase out of Matthews hands and threw his arms around his brother. Matthew was shocked – Alfred wasn't a hugger.

"I don't know what to do." He sobbed into his brothers hair "If we were 'human', I'd take you home to mom and dad, and we'd get you help, but we're nations, there is no 'mom and dad', and I don't know where to find help. All I know is that I'm your brother, and I have to do something."

Alfred squeezed his brother. Matthew could feel his tears on his shoulders.

"I'm taking you 'home'!" Alfred announced again "I won't let you hurt yourself, Matty! I won't let you! I'll save you! I'm the hero! Heroes save people! I'm the hero!"

Alfred dissolved into sobs. Matthew sighed and placed his hands on his brothers back gently.

"It's alright, Al."

"Don't say that! That's my line! Stupid lying Matty!"

Matthews insides remained calm as his brother cried on his shoulder. He rubbed his back patiently, waiting from him to stop crying, or for the sun to rise, whichever came first.

* * *

Downer ending? Depression rarely appears at random, and can take other forms from the listless and weepy variety. Canada was a 'good candidate', considering his canon is that he's constantly ignored, attacked, and mistaken for his brother. I want to believe that America is just dense, not deliberately cruel. I might take this side-line further, if I run out of ideas for the main storyline. In the next chapter, we return to England and France, and I can warn you now that things will get worse for Arthur before it gets better. Also, micro-pigs.


	6. Chapter 6 Winter in London

Thank you so much for your continued support! I can't believe how many people are reading this! My cynical little heart overflows with joy! With that in mind, have chapter 6, where nothing much happens, but a lot in it is true!

* * *

**London in Winter.**

The British winter is miserable in a way that is hard to describe without coming off as hyperbole. The sky is always grey, like a low concrete curtain stretching as far as the eye could see. The air is close and warm, but a chill wind blows at all times, around every corner and over the hills and buildings. Despite the grey sky, it never seems to rain, but every morning the ground, vehicles and benches were dark and wet. You never saw the sun.

It had been a long time since Francis had spent the winter in England – their countries may only be a channel apart, but the difference between them was incredible. England in winter was just too miserable for him. It was unrelenting. London was especially miserable – the old grey buildings, cold and damp, backed by the solid grey sky, full of sullen people darting about from place to place with no beauty around them to behold. It was no wonder…

Arthur hadn't gotten out of bed for 3 days, except to use the bathroom – and not for showers – before crawling back into his pit. Francis had tried asking, nagging, yelling, and using threats and physical force, but nothing seemed to be working. On the second day, sick of trying to negotiate, Francis had pulled him up by his shirt and demanded he get out of bed, he was met with a single word of reply:

"Why?"

Arthurs emerald eyes lacked any emotion as he said it. He didn't fight or yell, or try to pull his shirt away, just stare at Francis blankly. His face was pale, and the bags under his eyes deeper than they had been before. When his shirt was released, he simply fell back down to the bed and rolled onto his side, staring at the wall.

Francis didn't know what to say – the Arthur he was used to was so fiery, so full of life and argumentative, seeing him so listless and resigned… he had cried. Actually cried. Once he had dried his eyes, he made lunch, but Arthur didn't eat. With no other source of information, Francis went back to the internet.

'Just kick him out!' seemed to be the consensus, along with 'he's faking it' and 'he just wants some fucking attention!', none of which were all that useful. Sure, he could 'kick him out' of bed, but then what? Arthur was a grown man, Francis couldn't just throw him over his shoulder and drag him to the playground to cheer him up. And what would he do when he was out of bed? Sit about on the sofa and do nothing, staring into space, instead of lying in bed doing nothing? He seemed to have no energy, no drive – he didn't even want to drink tea. For a few days before he took to his bed, he picked up his needlework a few times, but just ended up staring at it. He stared at the tv blankly, not taking anything in, and picked at his food, hardly saying a word to Francis.

As his internet search continued, he just got more frustrated. His English was good, but by no means perfect, so he couldn't understand the medical sites which might actually be useful, and everything else he found seemed to be opinion – ill-informed and quite worrying opinion, at that. Francis slammed the laptop closed in disgust. After wandering about the flat for a bit, we went into Arthurs room and laid down on the bed with him. After a moment, he pulled the smaller man into his arms, and the fact that he didn't fight back only upset him.

* * *

To cheer himself up, Francis tracked down a fancy French department store. Arthur still refused to get out of bed, so he went alone. Being surrounded by luxury and beauty cheered him immensely, and hearing the beautiful people speaking his language was like music to his ears against the harsh tones of the Londoners. He bought a lovely silk scarf, hair wax and a pair of suede gloves before flirting with one of the pretty shop assistants.

"Oh –ho-ho-ho!" she laughed with him "It's just like that, isn't it? How do these British cope?"

"Perhaps that's why they are so stocky – it keeps them warm!"

The flirtatious laughter continued. The girl laid her hand on his arm.

"The first few years I was here, I couldn't stand the winters!" she confessed "So Dark and dreary_ all the time!_ I got so depressed, I just didn't want to get up in the morning."

"Ah, is that so? It must have been so tough for such a beautiful girl to be so sad."

"It was, _mon cher,_ all I wanted was to go home to Brittany."

"So 'ow did you cope? Did you seek out works of great beauty to lift your spirits, such as _moi_?"

"Oh, my, no! There is very little in London that can be called beautiful!" the girl said bluntly "No, I bought myself a SAD light."

"Sad… as in…upset? _Mon Dieu_, how do you upset a light?"

The girl laughed flirtatiously and led Francis across the floor to the electronics, showing off a range of bizarre, flat lamps.

"Not sad,_ Cherie_, SAD. S.A.D. It means 'Seasonal Affect Disorder.'" She explained "The lack of natural sunlight in the winter causes chemical changes in the brain that mimic, or can lead to, symptoms of depression."

"My, my, you are a great intellect as well as a great beauty!" Francis continued to flirt, not picking up on the sales pitch "What a pity you are stuck here, instead of basking in the sunshine of the Riviera!"

The girl laughed in agreement.

"Until I can save enough to go visit my papa there, I will have to make do with this." She went on "The SAD lights mimic daylight, giving off a bright white light instead of yellow like a normal light bulb. If you keep it at your side while you're working at your desk or watching tv, your eyes will pick up on the daylight and the hormone levels in your brain will adjust."

"Really? That's pretty good."

Francis took off his lover hat and put on his big brother hat for a moment, taking a look at the price tag. Both those hats were immediately replaced by the 'are you fucking kidding me?!' hat.

"Five…hundre…" he couldn't even finish the word.

"_Oui,_ they are a little pricy." The shop girl admitted coyly "But they are very good. Shall I tell you more… over coffee?"

* * *

"I'm not sure what's worse." Arthur commented, talking into his pillow "The stench of cheap perfume, or that fact that I can't tell if it's a womans or yours."

"_Mon dieu_, Chanel number 5 is _not_ a cheap perfume!" Francis spat bitterly at him "And _Mademoiselle_ Louise would not wear the kind of cheap stink-water your British ladies seem to adore."

"So you did get laid."

"A gentleman never tells." Francis sang with his usual laugh.

"You aren't a gentleman." Arthur reminded him, trying to pull his covers up over his head, but Francis standing on his bed pinned the covers in place "What are you doing anyway?"

"I bought you something~"

"I'd rather you didn't."

"All done!"

Francis stepped back to admire his handywork – it wasn't in his nature to by 'handy' (it was in his nature to pay/coerce/bully others into being handy for him, but Germany was still on his honeymoon, so what other choice did he have?), but he had to admit that he did a pretty good job attaching the bracket to the wall. He pulled the lamp out and pointed it at Arthur on the bed below, flipping it on. The man below was immediately bathed in white light.

"What the hell?!" Arthur swore at him "What the hell is that for?"

Francis dropped the screwdriver on top of the messy head, and while Arthur was cursing him, sat square on the small of his back.

"It is a SAD light, _mon ami." _He pointed out.

"And why did you put it _here_? I'm trying to sleep!"

"For two reasons, _mon petite lapin_." Francis explained "It will either annoy you so much that you will 'ave to get out of bed to beat me, or you will lie 'ere under it so long that it will change the chemical balance in your brain through the power of artificial daylight!"

"That's retarded! And get off my back! You stink like cheap perfume and cigarettes!" he paused for a moment, clock ticking in his head "She was the woman who sold you this piece of shit, wasn't she?"

"Per'aps."

"God, I hate you!"

Arthurs whole body went red, and he buried his face in his pillow again. Francis couldn't help but be happy that he was finally getting a reaction out of him.

"Well, I kind of 'ad to buy it." Francis admitted "I bought something expensive for myself, so I 'ad to buy you something nice so that you wouldn't be mad."

"Why would I be mad? I don't give a shit what you buy."

Francis just smiled, waiting for Arthurs thought process to tick over. He didn't have to wait long, though, as a shuffle, scuffle and 'oink' bundled its way into the room. Arthur spun around as best he could with Francis still sitting on him to look at the floor. On the floor, a snuffly nose and two little black eyes looked back up at him. Arthur just stared at it.

"That's a pig." He pointed out.

"_Oui_, it's a pig."

"Why did you buy a pig?"

"Because it's cute."

"What…!? WHAT?!"

Arthur lost it, throwing Francis off him and grabbing him by the shirt.

"Why the fuck did you buy a pig?! What is this, the fucking middle ages?! What the fuck are you going to do with it?! How could you bring a pig into my house?! What the fuck are you going to do when it gets huge and shits everywhere?!"

"Ah, but that's the best part, _mon ami_!" Francis sang "She is a micro-pig! She will never get bigger than a foot tall!"

"But….why?!"

"_Mon dieu,_ they are the latest fashion! No one 'as dogs or cats anymore, they 'ave adorable pigs! Look at 'er adorable face! Don't you just want to kiss her?"

"NO! Get that beast out of my house! And animals are not fashion accessories!"

"Arthur, you will 'urt Fifis feelings if you carry on like this."

"Fifi…fi…fifi…FUCKING FIFI?! WHY THE FUCK NOT?!"

Arthurs brain decided to shut down. He grabbed his covers and hit the pillow with force, pulling them up over his head and curling into a ball.

"And turn off that fucking light!"

Francis kept smiling. Angry was better than nothing. It was nearly dinner time, so he got off the bed to go to the kitchen. Fifi snuffled around his feet like an adorable puppy, making little 'oink' and 'sniffle' noises. With a moments thought, Francis scooped her off the ground and plopped her on Arthurs bed before leaving the room.

* * *

The fucking pig was on his bed. Pig. On. His. Bed. He could feel it shuffling about on the mattress, nudging his legs with its nose and falling over on its little legs. He really. Besides the fact that having a pig on your bed was disgusting, he felt like he didn't want anything coming near him – people you could yell at until they went away, but animals weren't as controllable. He didn't even dislike pigs – he had even kept them in the past, when it was common to keep livestock, but they had been proper, half-ton oinkers that you ate after a while, not these fru-fru bastards. And 'Fifi'? Seriously?!

Stumbling up to the head of the bed, Fifi sniffed about Arthurs head and hands, licking his fingers until he moved them to expose his face. Fifi continued to sniff at him. She was a pinky-white little thing, with the occasional brown blob on her hide, and a tuft of coarse blonde hair on her head. No wonder Francis liked her – he had a thing for blondes. The pig made a satisfied noise, suddenly dropping its hind and lying down on the bed next to Arthurs head, snuggling up against his neck. Was this piglet really going to stay tiny? Arthur huffed, knowing that – as Britain – he was never going to get around his weakness to animals, and scratched the piggy gently between the ears. Fifi snuffled happily and flipped her ears about.

* * *

Dinner was just being laid on the table when Arthur made his appearance, still wearing the same pyjamas he had been for nearly a week, with Fifi under his arm like a Chihuahua.

"Your pig wants feeding." He said plainly.

"So does _mon petit lapin_, I think."

Upon seeing the pigs food, Arthur put it down on the kitchen floor and proceeded to give it its dinner before sitting himself down at the table. He stared at his food for a while.

"It's not pork, is it?"

"_Non_, its lamb. 'Ow can you not tell?"

Arthur pulled a face. Francis laughed.

"No wonder your cooking is so bad, if you cannot tell the difference between lamb and pork!"

"It all looks the same when it's cooked!" Arthur insisted.

"Only when you cook it, _mon ami_."

Arthur picked up his fork and started picking at his meal. Francis slowed down his rate of eating and sipped on his glass of wine. They didn't say anything much as they ate, with Fifi shuffling around her new space excitedly.

"Can't believe you bought a fucking pig."

"You love 'er, I can tell."

"What are you going to do with her when you go back to France?"

"Dress 'er in a little bow and 'eels and take 'er to the cafes, so the beautiful ladies will flock to us!"

"You're an idiot."

"Made you laugh."

Indeed, Arthur was smiling, albeit begrudgingly, as he picked at his food.

"I was thinking, _mon ami_." Francis began.

"I doubt that."

"Ah ha ha, your sense of humour is most droll. As I was saying, I 'ave been thinking – we should leave London for a while."

"Why?"

"Because it is _tres miserable _in the winter, that is why! I feel depressed in this place, I cannot imagine 'ow you must be feeling."

"Go back to France then."

"If I thought I could get you to be'ave yourself at my 'ome, I would not 'esitate to the ferry from Dover, but I know 'ow you get all conquery when you're in another country for too long."

"'Conquery' isn't a word."

"Don't you ave 'an house in the Lake District?" Francis went on.

"Yeah, so?"

"So, we should take some time off before the conference next month. It would do us both some good to get away from this place."

"After you just put your light up? Seems like a shame."

"I put it up once, I can just take it down and put it up again!"

"You don't have to. It fell off the damn wall."

"_Mon Dieu_!"

* * *

What time was it? He didn't know. Arthur stared at the ceiling. He hadn't left his bed for days, and now he felt trapped in it. It wasn't comfortable, no matter what position he was in, but he had no strength in his arms or back. His head felt so heavy that his neck couldn't hold it up. He hadn't thought about anything in days, but his head was full, like it was stuffed with cotton wool, pressing against his temples and the back of his eyes. He was too hot. He was too cold. His eyes were fuzzy. He was so tired, so tired, but wide awake. The only thing he could compare this feeling to was a fever – there, but at the same time absent.

He finally got up. Everything was heavy. His head was both heavy and light, taking all his strength to lift, but rolling about easily on his shoulders. He wandered about the flat a bit, loitering in the rooms, but not really going anything. He ended up in the bathroom, not entirely sure what he was doing there. The cold porcelain of the bathtub felt good. Quietly, he put the lid of the toilet down and sat on it, staring at the floor.

Nothing went through his mind. He stared at the floor tiles. Everything around him was silent and delicate, like a fine crystal bell that would shatter if it ever rang. He knew his mind wasn't right. He just sat there, staring at the floor.

After a moment, or maybe an hour, the hall light went on and Francis appeared in the doorway. Arthur looked up at him, but again, nothing ran through his mind, so he stayed silent. Francis looked concerned, but said nothing. After a moment of looking at each other, Francis stepped into the bathroom and sat himself on the floor before Arthur. For a while, they just sat there, not speaking, or even looking at each other.

Finally, Francis stood up again. He wrapped his arms around Arthur shoulders, lifting him gently, and took him back to bed.

* * *

My fellow people of Britain - how the fuck do we put up with our winter for so long? I live in the countryside, so its not so bad, but I can't imagine how awful it must be to have to be in London all winter...

So, as I said, nothing much happened in this chapter. Although I don't know if there is a fancy French department store in London (frankly, I've never looked for one), SAD lights definitely do exist (and they are horrendously expensive), as does Seasonal Affect Disorder. Many people in England suffer from it without knowing, simply thinking they get sad in the winter. While people who have it tend to cheer up when the days get brighter, it has the capacity to be just as crippling as depression, especially if you already suffer from it.

Why micro-pigs? Doesn't that seem like the kind of pet France would have? That or Poland. Micro-Pigs are, like, totally in right now!

Serious time - while that last scene may be a little hard to understand for people who haven't been touched by depression, its actually anecdotal. A few years ago I had a bad spell of depression, and ended up sat on the toilet staring at nothing for 45 minutes at 3 in the morning, when my brother came and sat with me. We didn't say anything. I don't know if he remembers it, but I always will... sorry to be a downer...

ANYWAY! Next chapter takes place in the Lake District, so called (for my non-English readers) because its full of lakes. I admit its a filler chapter (or is it?!) while I mull over how to handle the conference chapter. In order for the story to work, someone needs to be a complete asshole, but I don't know who to pick... what I need them to say is out of character for everyone! All suggestions welcome...


	7. Chapter 7 Because 'English', that's why

I picked a hell of a week to quit drinking...

* * *

**Because 'English', that's why.**

"Tell me, Arthur, which of us is older?" Francis asked suddenly.

"You are." Arthur replied obviously.

"Oui, you are correct. Tell me also, which of us has been driving longer?"

"You, I suppose. But not by much. Why?"

"Because you drive like an infernal blind old man!" Francis criticised "If I 'ad been driving, we would be there by now!"

"I'm doing the speed limit, you pillock!"

"And everyone is passing you! Look, that old lady is passing us! You're getting your ass beat by an old lady!"

"Shut the fuck up! Keep talking and you'll be walking the rest of the way to the Lake District!"

"And I would arrive before you! Put your foot down!"

"I'm doing fine – you just drive like a wanker!"

The two bickered comfortably down the duel carriageway, bags piled in the back seat of the car, with Fifi sat happily at Francis' feet, occasionally oinking. The weather was clear (which in England meant it wasn't raining) as they left London, and the further they got from the capitol, the clearer the sky became.

"Ah, I cannot remember the last time I went to the Lake District." Francis mused "But I remember sitting beside those beautiful lakes reading stories with you when you were little. Ah! It was forever ago, was it not?"

"Technically, there's only one lake in the Lake District." Arthur corrected as he changed gear "Lake Windermere. The rest are Meres or Waters."

Francis pulled a face.

"_Waters?" _he spat "I was under the impression that the plural of 'water' was 'water.'"

"Yes." Arthur confirmed "Except when they're waters."

"So the Lake District only 'as one lake, and the plural of 'water' is 'water', unless they are 'waters.'"

"That's right."

Francis stared at him incredulously.

"I 'ate you, Arthur."

They stopped at the services to refuel and let Fifi stretch her legs for a few minutes, although the poor thing looked more terrified of the trucks and cars than anything else and tried to hide under the car. Faster than Arthur had seen Francis move in a long time, the Frenchman had buckled himself into the drivers seat and refused to move. Arthur couldn't be bothered to fight with him, and took Fifi into his lap on the passenger seat, trying to ignore the reckless driving. The little pig promptly fell asleep (and she snored), and Arthur amused himself by rummaging through his bag. He couldn't be bothered with the paperback he had bought, so ended up taking a closer inspection at the pills he had been prescribed.

"I'm going to stop taking these." He announced five minutes later.

"Eh? Why?"

"Known side effects include," He began "Serotonin syndrome; nausea; diarrhoea; increased blood pressure; agitation; headaches; anxiety; nervousness; emotional instability; increased suicidal ideation; suicide attempts; insomnia; drug interactions; neonate adverse reactions; anorexia; dry mouth."

"That's a long list." Francis admitted "But I think you should still-"

"Not finished. Somnolence; tremors; sexual dysfunction; decreased libido; asthenia; dyspepsia; dizziness; sweating; personality disorders; epistaxis; urinary frequency; menorrhagia; mania/hypomania; chills; palpitations; taste perversion; micturition disorder drowsiness; GI irregularities; muscle weakness; and long term weight gain."

"That's…a…'ard to argue with." Francis agreed "But you promised Elizavetta, did you not?"

"I promised her I'd take it until I found something else."

"And 'ave you looked for anything else?"

"No." Arthur admitted "But you did insist on hauling the bloody lamp all the way from London."

"I paid good money for that lamp, you are going to use it! Besides, buying it is more than you've done."

"Hm. I don't think getting all touchy feely with a therapist is going to help me." Arthur said honestly "That's more of an American thing."

"Don't be stubborn." Francis scolded.

"Oh, really? Would you go to therapy?"

"I already 'ave." Francis admitted without remorse.

"What?! When?"

"After World War Deux." Francis went on "I 'ad post-traumatic stress for a while, what with being occupied by Nazi's and all."

"Good god, man, why didn't you tell me? I had no idea!"

"Mental 'ealth was still very new to medicine." Francis remembered "Don't you remember 'ow 'ard out veterans 'ad to fight to 'ave Shell Shock recognised as a condition?"

"Yes." Arthur grumbled "It was shameful."

"I imagine you saw your fair share. You were on the front line more than anyone, _mon ami_."

"I was." Arthur recalled "I remember when they were executed by their own generals for 'cowardice.' But that still doesn't explain why you've kept it from me for nearly 70 years!"

"Oh? And why didn't you tell me when you became depressed, Arthur?"

"Well… because…" he grumbled "It's an entirely different thing!"

"Why?"

"Because you had a good reason to be traumatised! The Second World War was a terrible thing, I can't imagine what you went through during the occupation. I know we weren't as close then, but you could have come to me if you had something legitimately wrong with you like that!"

"So, you think what is wrong with you is not 'legitimate'?" Francis picked up immediately, taking a glance at the smaller man.

"Well, it's… I mean… come on, now…you know."

"No Arthur, I do not know." Francis said bluntly "Were you not diagnosed by a medical professional? Given medicine and told to take time off work, just like a 'legitimate' sick person?"

"But it's not the same." Arthur insisted.

"Why?"

"Because you can't _see_ it."

"Oh?"

"If someone's broken their leg, you can see they're wearing a cast." Arthur elaborated "And you think, 'oh, that's not right, something's happened.' If someone's got a disease, you can see it in their face, and it's like 'they don't look well, they must be sick.'" He sighed "And for post-traumatic stress, I mean, it's in the name – you think 'they've been through something terrible, they need help and compassion to get back to normal."

He huffed and scratched Fifi on the back of the head, and she snuffled happily.

"But I look fine. I don't _look sick_. Even when I look in the mirror, I think 'stop faking it, you're fine. Pull yourself together.'"

"And what would it look like?" Francis challenged "If depression 'ad a face? People with broken bones wear casts, people with cancer lose their 'air. So what does depression look like?"

"I don't know… pale, withdrawn, messy hair… just… 'sick.'" He paused a moment "I know I'm sick. I can feel that my head's not right. But I also know what I look like when I'm sick, and I don't look like that now. I look fine."

"Mon ami, you are naturally pale, your 'air is always messy, and you 'ave been pretty withdrawn lately." Francis pointed out.

"Oh, shut up, Pillock."

Francis just laughed.

"The very worst things cannot be seen until it is too late to anything about them." Francis pointed out "You know this."

"I know. I just think I ought to look the same on the outside as I do on the inside."

"I understand, _mon ami_. After all, it takes a lot of work to be as beautiful on the outside as I am on the inside!"

"If you weren't driving, I'd kick you."

* * *

Arthurs spirits seemed to lift away from the dank grey claustrophobia of London. A little colour returned to his cheeks, he raised his voice more, argued with Francis, and even took up his needlepoint again. Francis himself couldn't be happier seeing his beloved friend looking so well. The two larked about all week, going for walks about the waters ('fucking '_waters_', Arthur? I 'ate your stupid language!'), doing the tourist thing in the towns and villages (with Fifi on a lead) and eating far too much.

Sat under a tree in a grassy field overlooking a lake – or perhaps a mere – Francis nodded off peacefully, back against the trunk, hair falling like curtains over his face. Arthur admired the scenery, watching the bright red, white and blue ribbon on Fifi's neck bobbing up and down hurriedly in the tall grass. Just like a puppy, she wouldn't stray too far before coming back, oinking and snuffling, and then depart again for more exploring. He felt clearer. Perhaps because he was away from the tight winding streets, the anonymous mass of people, the vehicles and the noise. Maybe it was the clean, fresh air and the wind in his hair and having the time just to _be_, rather than always having to _do_. The quiet didn't bother him, because it was clear, not the muffled white noise he had become so accustomed to in London, he had forgotten it was there until he was away from it.

As time went on, he woke Francis up (by holding Fifi up to his face until her sniffing, 'kissing' and biting roused him) and the two of them headed back. Arthur wasn't going to take no for an answer today – he was going to cook dinner. He liked to cook, and he thought there was definitely nothing wrong with his cooking, thank you very much. Francis objected, of course, but he had been cooking every day since he had arrived here, for gods' sake! Francis hovered over him as he prepared the vegetables, begging him to stop like a clucking hen, before a loud bang and little pigs squeal interrupted them.

"Go and see what she's done!" Arthur ordered "She's your pig!"

"_Oui, oui_, but for the love of God, don't touch the brisket! It was _tres _expensive!" Francis ordered as he left the kitchen.

Arthur stuck up his two fingers behind the Frenchmans back and turned back to his vegetables. A whole swede would be more than the two of them could eat, so he had to cut it in half – Fifi could eat the rest if he cut it up small. The bastards were difficult to cut when they were raw, so Arthur got out his sharpest knife. He made sure his fingers were well out of the way as he put his weight on the knife against the swede. As the knife started to go down, a little pig ran through his feet.

* * *

"FUCK!"

"Arthur?!"

Francis bolted back in the kitchen to Arthurs sudden cry to pain. His heart stopped – Arthur was bathed in blood from a deep cut along his arm. The Brit had grabbed a tea towel and desperately pressed it against the wound, but the white flannel quickly dyed bright scarlet.

"This is why you don't have fucking pigs in the fucking house!" he screeched angrily at Francis "Fuck, that hurts!"

Francis grabbed the phone from his pocket and immediately dialled 999.

* * *

Once again, Francis sat alone in the waiting room, his shirt stained with his friends blood. His heart was in this throat, beating heavily and emptily. He couldn't calm himself down. It had been a while since he had seen that much blood. They may be nations, but they were still flesh. Fragile flesh. Fragile, bleeding flesh.

A nurse gently tapped his shoulder, bringing him back to the here and now. She smiled comfortingly.

"They're just bandaging him up." She told him "It wasn't as bad as it looked. You can go and sit with him if you like."

Francis took her up on the offer, finding Arthur easily in the small hospital emergency room, who was chatting awkwardly with the nurse who was wrapping his arm. He smiled nervously when he was Francis.

"Good lord, man, you look like you've seen a ghost." He teased "Did you lose more blood than I did?"

"All done for you, love." The nurse patted his hand "I'll just get your discharge papers for you."

"Thank you."

The nurse left, and Francis sat on the bed beside him. Arthur laughed to break the silence.

"Had a hell of a time convincing them this was an accident." He admitted, holding up his sore arm "Luckily, they believed me in the end. Hurts like a bitch, I can tell you. Hehehe…"

Francis didn't laugh. He just stared at Arthur.

"Hey, why the long face? You're making me nervous!"

Francis' azure eyes started to sting. His lower lip quivered and his vision blurred as a painful lump rose in his throat. He didn't try to stop his tears – stifling his emotions wasn't his style, but very little moved him to tears. Arthur looked shocked, reaching out for him with his good hand.

"Hey, there…"

Gently, Francis wrapped his arms around Arthur, holding him tight as he buried his face in the messy yellow hair, letting his tears flow. After a moment, he felt Arthurs hands gently on his back.

"Hey now, it was just an accident." He tried to sooth "I've been hurt worse than this."

"I know." Francis sobbed "I know it was an accident. I know, but still…"

He pulled away a little and kissed Arthur on the mouth. He felt the smaller mans body stiffen, as it always did when he kissed him, but Francis wasn't looking for anything erotic, letting the kiss end chastely and putting his head on Arthurs shoulder.

"Don't you die on me." He sobbed "Don't you ever die. All that blood. I was so scared. I was so scared."

He gripped Arthur tighter. The smaller man sighed and patted his back.

"There, there, it's alright. It's alright."

* * *

Aw, poor Francis :(. Although I don't think we can really blame Fifi - no micro-pig bacon in this fic! So, whats with the title? Believe it or not, I'm a trained teacher of English as a foreign language, and 'water'/'waters' is exactly the type of thing people learning English HATE. I don't blame them. A short chapter for your enjoyment, next time is the world conference. I don't think this story will got on for too many new chapters, since there's only so much I can say on the subject without repeating myself or getting ridiculous. Hope you enjoy and see you soon!


	8. Chapter 8 Understanding Part 1

Apologies to the Scottish

* * *

**Understanding Part 1.**

Since the doctor had instructed Arthur not to pressure his arm for the time being, Francis drove them back to London. Fifi had been banished to the back seat, since neither man trusted Arthur not to kick her if she was around his feet again. Being a pig, she had no idea she was being punished, and happily made herself a cosy bed amongst the bags and blankets, occasionally oinking, but mostly dozing. The drive going south was colder than the drive up, as the winter was settling itself comfortably into the land. Arthur wrapped himself up in a blanket and Francis was bundled up in a million layers (but he still managed to look slim – how did he do it?!), complaining the entire way.

"Why is your 'eating still broken? It broke over 10 years ago!"

"Because I live in London, Froggy, I barely use my car!"

"That is no excuse! There is nothing sexy about shivering!"

"And who the hell are you trying to be sexy for, pray tell?"

"Why you, of course." Francis answered with a wink.

"Really? You're really going to start a fight while we're driving?"

The city remained as they had left it, except that here and there the Christmas decorations had started to appear across the streets, hanging off ungrateful lamp posts and in shop windows.

"Earlier and earlier every year." Arthur grumbled.

There was still a few days until the conference, but this being December, the nations liked to gather a little earlier to celebrate their particular winter festival. For America, it was of course all about Christmas, but as there was a myriad of other celebrations, they tried their best to keep things secular. They had a big party with lots of food and drink at a nice restaurant or hotel, exchanged gifts with their friends and allies, and in the spirit of the season, ignored their enemies. Of course, this didn't stop America throwing his own (completely lavish and entirely overdone, in Englands opinion) Christmas party closer to the end of the month, but the nations rarely got to let their hair down when they were all together – especially as Americas guest list always excluded whatever country his bosses had a problem with this year.

While usually England would have planned the bash (since the conference happened to be in his home this year), since he had been taking some time off work, it had been left to his brothers and sister, and naturally he was worried. While Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland could certainly plan a party – with enough lager to sink the Lusitania – a sophisticated soiree might be a little above their heads. At Arthurs insistence, they headed for the hotel first, to check on the progress of the party. Fifi seemed ecstatic that they had finally stopped, and Francis put her on her lead so she would walk around the hotel. To Arthurs great relief (and suspicion), everything seemed to be in order.

"And what the bloody hell happened to you?"

They looked around, meeting with the curvaceous Bronwen (aka Wales), curly black hair pulled back into a pony tail, dressed sensibly and holding a clipboard – she looked like a party planner, and considering she usually looked like a farmer, it was quite a change.

"Hello, Bronwen." Arthur greeted "Everything looks like it's going well?"

"Don't change the subject!" she ordered, pointing her pen accusingly at his bandaged arm "What happened?"

"Oh, I was cutting a swede and a pig got involved. It's not as bad as it looks."

Bronwens emerald eyes were full of scepticism, but as she seemed harassed and stressed, she let it slide for now, especially as she noticed Fifi sniffing about her shoes. Fishing about in her pocket, she threw a couple of keys at Arthur.

"Your rooms are 709 and 710." She told them "I've rented you both tux – try them on RIGHT NOW, because if they don't fit, we've only got a couple of hours to get them exchanged, and I still have a million things to do."

"Uh-"

"Scotlands in charge of the alcohol, so there's lots of Scotch and lager. Since we're 'hosting' the monkey for a while, his government has 'donated' some champagne and wine, and I've arranged for some spring water for the non-drinkers."

"Love you too, Bronny." Francis piped in.

"Patrick and James are taking care of the food."

"Patrick?!"

"Aye."

"Why is he getting involved?"

"Ireland may be a republic, but Patrick is still our brother."

That was pretty shocking. Arthur and Patrick hadn't been on the best of terms for some time now. But what was even more shocking…

"He and James…together?"

"Aye."

"That's…unfeasible!"

"They found common ground in touring restaurants to find chefs."

"Oh, thank god!" Francis declared, earning him a glare from Bronwen.

None of the British Isles were known for their cooking, but the Irelands – North and Republic – were slated as the only nations whose cooking was worse than Englands (what with Wales and Scotland being able to brag about their lamb and salmon respectively).

"Go try on your damn suits!" Bronwen ordered again "And I swear to god, Arthur, I am never doing this again! This fucking party is more trouble than it's worth! It's not like I can just throw a plate of sausage rolls on the counter and have done with it, no, there are over 200 countries to consider, and some can't eat pork, and some can't drink, and some have to have their food killed in a certain way, and some can't eat this-or-that vegetable for god-knows-why!" she screamed in frustration "You owe me, little brother! You owe me big for this one!"

She marched off to check on the arrangements. Somewhat bemused, Arthur regarded the keys in his hand.

"Why did she get us rooms when I live in the city?"

"You want to go and ask 'er?"

"God no."

If there's two things Arthur knew, it was never cross an angry woman, or an angry Welshman. How to deal with an angry Welsh woman? Let's just say centuries of being beaten up by his big sister had taught him that the best option was to run away. The two took the lift up to the seventh floor and found their rooms, which were quite nice, albeit unnecessary, and they found their suits waiting for them. Francis offered to help Arthur with his jacket, and they engaged in their usual back-and-forth before being interrupted.

"Atry!" a deep voice called jovially "You little bastard!"

The two blondes looked to the doorway – Scotland was easily the tallest of Brittanias children, with the wild red hair of the Celts and the mischievous emerald eyes his family was known for. He grinned at the two.

"Good god, 'e's wearing a skirt." Francis muttered.

"It's a kilt!" Arthur defended "You know it's a kilt!"

"Aye! Wee Franny's just jealous!" the red-head announced "He cannae wear dresses like 'e ustae!"

"Angus…"

"It was a tunic!" Francis shrieked, having heard this argument many times before.

Angus just laughed and made his way into the room, slamming the door in his usual heavy handed manner.

"What's all this I hear 'a you, buggering off up north an' leaving all the work tae us, then? Not that I mind – it's always nice tae 'ave and excuse to go on a tour a my distilleries."

"Since when have you ever needed an excuse?" Arthur asked.

"Never!" Angus admitted "But I rarely get tae order a crates worth!"

Angus slapped Francis on the back playfully by way of greeting, but as the Frenchman was quite a bit leaner, it nearly knocked him clear off his feet.

"_Mon ami_, I swear you get worse every time I see you." Francis criticised as he rubbed his sore shoulder "And you've gotten fatter, too."

"Is that any way to speak tae one of ye oldest friends?" Angus pretended to be hurt.

"It is because you are my friend that I can say it 'onestly." Francis replied "Per'aps it is time to lay off the deep-fried Mars Bars, _mon ami_."

"Please, I dunnae eat that shite! Every pound a me is muscle, matey!"

"_Oui_, even the wobbly bits."

"Angus, what do you want?" Arthur interrupted before they completely lost track.

"Oh aye, Bronny sent me up." He confirmed "She wanted tae know about your suits."

Arthur grumbled.

"She could at least give us time to try them on."

"Aye, girly's been ferocious since the pricks in parliament put her in charge. They dinnae think we could handle it, even though I'm the oldest! I ask ya! Although, she does remind us of our old mum when she's like this, but I wounnae want 'er like this all the time."

"Agreed." Arthur said plainly "Give me a minute and I'll try on the suit, okay?"

"Aye."

Scotland didn't move, placing his hands on his hips and staring at his brother expectantly. Being British, and therefore shy about nudity, Arthur took the tux into the bathroom to try on. As soon as they heard the door lock, Angus turned to Francis.

"What happened tae his arm?" he asked sweetly.

"'E was cutting a swede, and Fifi ran through 'is legs. Just an accident, _mon ami_." Francis assured him, although truth be told, thinking about the incident still turned his stomach funny.

"Is that a fact?" Angus remained sweet "Those swedes sure can be a bastard." He clicked his tongue and wiped his nose with his finger "Sure is a nasty looking cut for an accident."

"_Oui_, the knife was very sharp."

"Does the laddy have many 'accidents'?"

"_Non_, he is usually…"

Francis finally picked up on the tone.

"_Non,_ there are no 'accidents'." He confirmed with a sigh.

"Is that right? Because if there were, _I_ might have tae get involved. And I don't think anybody wants that."

"I can assure you, _mon ami_, 'and on my 'eart, as long as I am around, there will be no 'accidents'."

"Aye, you make sure a that."

Awkward silence followed their awkward conversation.

"What's with the pig?" Angus asked.

"She is a micro-pig!" Francis cheered to lighten the mood "They are all the rage in pets!"

"What the hell for? Ya cannae get a decent bacon butty outta that."

"You will not be making bacon out of Fifi!"

Arthur reappeared from the bathroom.

"The suit is fine." He confirmed "Tell Bronwen she can cross it off her list."

"_Oui_, as is mine." Francis said, although truth be told he hadn't tried it on, but he could make anything look good.

"A'right, then! T'other nations are arrivin', party starts at 8, be downstairs to greet your bloody guests at ten to or Bronny'll tan yer hide!"

Francis tried his level best to do _something_ with Arthurs hair, but just had to admit defeat. The shorter man noticeably winced as Francis helped him get his jacket on – the sleeves were a little tight – and felt a pang of guilt. Bronwen, properly scrubbed up, was more than happy to practically throw her clipboard at her brothers head and enjoy the fruits of her labours – it was in the hands of fate now, and knowing how the nations were when they got together, she wasn't going waste her night trying to keep order.

The conference room was grand and elegant, with ivory coloured walls and gold gildings, tall French windows and a spotless red carpet. At one side of the room, a great 'U' shaped table had been set up, ready for the later meal, all silverware polished to perfection, each fork, knife and spoon laid in the exact right place. At the other end was a large space, all but empty except for the table piled high with drinks and glasses. Brilliant chandeliers hung above them like magnificent icicles, gently illuminating the room in a golden glow. Francis whistled in appreciation.

"There is nothing man can do that can match a womans elegance." He postured.

"I'll remind you of that next time she throws a sheep at you."

"Ohonhonhonhon, she does do that, doesn't she?"

Being the host country, Arthur stood at the entrance and greeted his guests like a gentleman. Despite how frightfully dull it was, Francis stood beside him the entire time, being charming with the guests and completely inappropriate with his friends. Arthur had to elbow him roughly a couple of times in the ribs to make him behave. Finally, everyone had arrived, and the two were able to enjoy the party.

A contented chatter filled the room. Feliciano clung to Lugwigs arm as usual as they spoke with Japan and Belgium. China marched around the room in aggravation with Korea on his heels like a puppy begging for attention, and even hiding behind Russia didn't seem to make him go away. Ukraine chatted happily with Hungary, who had Austria on her arm, who himself was either zoning out entirely or appreciating the music. Belarus, Seychelles and Lichtenstein were whispering and giggling conspiratorially ('Ah, young women are _tres bon,_ are they not?') while Sealand, Wy and Kugelmugel ran about the place excitably. Romano was telling off Spain who, along with Prussia, was trying to get Switzerland drunk. Greece was being kept awake by Turkey occasionally slapping him on the back of the head while they spoke with Egypt, and the Baltics reminisced about days-gone-by. With over 200 countries in attendance, Arthur was happy that the lack of raised voices was a good sign. Francis was on his heels like a shadow as he made the rounds.

The Nordics were the same as always – friendly, if a little difficult to talk to. Each of them gave England a little courtesy present (as the host nation and not-an-enemy), while they availed themselves of the fine scotch. Feliciano talked their ears off with tales of his honeymoon with Germany in the Cayman Islands (said husband shushing him when it got too personal), before overloading them with souvenirs and presents. Russia was always generous with the presents, but he seemed determined to spoil Arthur this year, giving him a pile of presents taller than he was ('To cheer you up, _da_?'), while the presents from the Asian countries ranged from the sensible ('It's supposed to keep your tea warm for longer, Arthur-san') to the downright stingy ('It's Kimchi sauce, okay? You think because you throw a fancy party, I owe you, da zay?').

It took a while, what with playing host, before Arthur and Francis noticed that they hadn't seen America. After a brief look around, they spotted him with Canada at the edge of the room. While it was perfectly normal for Canada to hang out around the edges of a situation, America was normally right in the middle of it.

"You boys!" Arthur greeted jovially as they approached "Why are you standing about like a couple of wallflowers? Have you gotten yourselves drinks yet?"

"Hello, Arthur." Canada greeted in his usual manner "This party is really nice. You really put a lot of work into it."

"I can't take the credit this time." He admitted "Your aunt Bronwen – I mean Wales – put this all together."

"Oh? Is that so?"

Matthew blushed happily for some reason. As Francis fussed over the boy a little, Arthur noticed Kumajiro was the only one with a drink (which made him decidedly uncomfortable). He offered to get them some, but Alfred refused. In answer to 'why', his only reply was 'solidarity.' Both the boys looked a little pale and thin, and Alfred looked like he hadn't been sleeping well. Matthew nervously tugged at his sleeves while Kumajiro sipped his whiskey (again, why did the _bear_ have a drink?). He looked happy as Arthur straightened his tie and Francis played with his hair. Something seemed to click in Alfred, and he put his arm around his brothers shoulder enthusiastically.

"Hey, 'mom and dad'!" he said enthusiastically "What are your plans for Christmas?"

Arthur looked at Francis, who shook his head.

"I don't think we have any." Arthur told him "Why?"

"Why don't Matty and I stay here for the holiday?" he suggested "Y'know, Christmas is a time for family!"

What's with this 'mom and dad' thing?

"Well, I don't mind." Arthur said.

"Nor do I." Francis agreed "It would be wonderful to 'ave you boys over for Christmas!"

"It's a deal then!"

Alfred immediately grabbed Arthurs hand to seal the deal. Unfortunately, he grabbed his injured hand, and the Britain noticeably winced. Both boys immediately looked concerned, and Alfred pushed Arthurs sleeve back enough to notice the bandages.

"Arthur…"

"Da…um.. Arthur, I-"

"I had a little accident in the kitchen." He assured them immediately "It's nothing to worry about. It'll be healed before you know it."

Neither of the boys looked like they believed him. Subtly – or as subtle as America had ever been – he put his hand on his brothers back.

"How about we come over about the 20th?" Alfred suggested "And we take off just after New Year?"

"That sounds good," Francis agreed "We'll make up the spare room for you."

"Hang on, it's my house!" Arthur argued "You can't just go inviting people over!"

"Oh? You object to the boys coming then?"

"Well, no-"

"Then what's the problem?"

Before a squabble could start, dinner was called. The choice was between lamb and beef for the carnivores, and salmon or nothing for the vegetarians (as none of the Kirklands were vegetarians, or had any sympathy for them) with a generous helping of roasted or steamed vegetables with gravy and fancy breads. While the seating arrangements weren't nearly as precise as they had been for German and Italys wedding, they were good enough to avoid the major disputes, with the extended Kirkland family (and Francis) at the head of the short side of the 'U' shaped table. James and Patrick were trying to drink each other under the table, but James, as Arthurs only younger Brother (if you ignore Sealand) wasn't really a match for the Irish Republic. Angus proudly and without shame accepted all the praise for the drinks and salmon (and at dessert, the short-bread and caramel), while Bronwen was happy to eat, drink and be merry, and forget her responsibilities for the night. Arthur kept things civilised with his gentlemanly conduct, but by midnight, he was ready to turn in and leave all these bloody people to their own devices. Since their conference official started at noon the next day, many countries took the sensible decision to retire before the am, and Francis (for once) agreed with Arthur that staying up with the stragglers (and drunks) was a bad idea.

"Did Hungary seem a little upset to you?" Arthur inquired as they ascended in the lift.

"Not that I noticed." Francis admitted "You think she might be 'aving a …'dark time'?"

"I don't know, but I think there was definitely something wrong. I'll ask her tomorrow."

The lift arrived at their floor, and Arthur proceeded to his room, with Francis on his heels, as he had been all night. Out of habit, he checked his mobile, which he had left in his room, and pulled a face.

"What is it?" Francis asked, seeing his expression.

"That idiot Prime Minister wants to talk to me tomorrow." He revealed "Before the meeting. I wonder what he wants?"

"Probably to catch you up on what 'as been happening while you 'ave been away." Francis supposed.

"Yes, you might…why are you naked?"

"Why not?"

"Let's go back to my question."

"It's hot."

"That's a damn lie."

"A better question is, why _aren't_ you naked?"

"Because I didn't drink that much – it messes with my medication."

"_Belle cher_, there we 'ave the answer to both our questions!"

Arthur sighed. Being the only sober one at the party was not fun.

"I'm getting Gilbert." He announced, as the Prussian was adept at handling a drunk and naked Francis.

As Arthur opened the door, Francis slammed it shut, leaning his whole weight against it to keep it closed. Arthur could smell the scotch on his breath as the taller man leaned over him. Francis released the door and wrapped his arms around Arthur, kissing his neck while touching him all over. Arthur just sighed – Francis was always the same when he was drunk. Despite the difference in their sizes, Arthur overpowered Francis easily, pinning him to the bed.

"Arthur…" he purred.

Britain just smiled.

"You'll regret it in the morning." He guaranteed.

He pinched Francis' nose, forcing him to breathe through is mouth, and after a moment, the Frenchman fell asleep. After hundreds of years living in each others pockets, Arthur knew how to make Francis do what he wanted, and he knew Francis knew the same of him. With a sigh, he tucked the Frenchman into his bed and changed, wondering again what it was the Prime Minister wanted.

* * *

One bottle of wine later. Does it make much sense? Look forward to part 2!


	9. Chapter 9 Understanding Part 2

I settled on my antagonist. The British may not be surprised.

* * *

Understanding Part 2.

It was still early when Arthur left the hotel room, Francis still snoring away blissfully – he only snored when he had been drinking. The harsh white light of the winters morn flooded the window, and the air had a definite chill to it. It was still too early for him to go to Downing Street, but he wanted to have a talk with Elizavetta before he went – she had seemed a little off last night, at least in his opinion, and he wanted to make sure nothing was wrong, especially after she had been so kind to him previously. However, he didn't know her room number, so would have to ask at the front desk. Would the room be under her name, or Roderichs? The question was rendered mute when he found the Hungarian already in the lobby, dressed up in her coat and scarf like she was about to head out.

"Good morning, Elizavetta!" Arthur called to get her attention before she walked out the door.

She twitched in surprise, as if caught in the act, and turned to him. He saw immediately that she had been crying. The two said nothing as Arthur approached, gently took her hands, and led her out of the building.

Since only commuters were about this time in the morning, the near-by park was relatively empty. Elizavetta sat on the harsh wooden bench and took the hot tea Arthur handed her. He sat down beside her and sipped at his earl grey. She sighed wretchedly.

"I'm sorry to make you worry." She said quietly "And here I was the one supposed to be looking out for you."

"Come now, no street goes but one way." He assured, trying to sound like he knew what he was talking about "How are you feeling?"

"It's not the depression." She assured him "But…well, it certainly doesn't help matters."

She sighed again. Arthur waited patiently for her to start talking again, knowing that a lady needed to take her own time. She closed her eyes and leant back against the bench, feeling the cold wind on her face before sighing again.

"Arthur, why do you think nations have genders?" she asked.

"Why?" Arthur had never really thought about it "I can't say I know."

Elizavetta laughed bitterly. After a moment, she turned to him, eyes full of sorrow.

"What do you think the point is of being a woman when I can't do what every other woman on this planet can? What's the point of these hips, these breasts, when I can never have a child?"

She sighed again, pulling a pitiful expression, before sitting up strait.

"I love Roderich so much. It pains me that we can't have a child. It's the ultimate expression of how much a woman loves a man. It should be the most natural thing in the world, but…"

"But we're nations," Arthur knew "Not people."

She nodded sadly, tears filling her eyes. A sob escaped her throat, and she covered her face with her hands, shoulders shaking. Arthur put his arms around her, and she leant into him, letting herself cry.

"Oh Arthur, I know I'm being stupid." She sobbed "But I can't help it. I just feel like there's this empty space within me that will never be filled. What's the point of this body? What's the point of nations having genders at all?!"

"You're not being stupid." Arthur soothed "It's not stupid at all. It's perfectly sensible to want to be part of a family."

"I get so jealous of these other women, even my own countrywomen, seeing them so happy with their children. Roderich and I have talked and talked about it, but I just can't make him understand!"

He rubbed her back gently as he felt his shirt start to dampen.

"You aren't the first nation to feel this way." He assured her.

"It's too cruel of God to make a nation female." She whimpered.

Arthur could understand. Nations weren't 'born', per say, just kind of 'appeared' as civilisations rose and fell. Time was that there were plenty of 'young' nations that the older nations could adopt and care for as their own, even though the very existence of these children meant that they and everything they represented was dying, but with all the world explored, mapped and named, those young countries have all grown up. Thanks to the UN, the borders of the world were practically written in stone, so no new nations could be formed from the tulmit of war. Arthur had raised enough young nations – America, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Hong Kong… being with them had bought him so much joy, he could well imagine the pain of being denied that experience. Because of their long life spans, adopting a non-nation child was out of the question.

"Have you tried speaking to another female nation?" Arthur suggested "They might be able to understand better than Austria can."

"It's not a subject that comes up easily." She pointed out.

"Yes, that is true. How about I give you Sealand? That little bugger's been driving me nuts lately."

Elizavetta laughed. She sat up strait and wiped her eyes.

"Sweden and Finland beat me to it." She pointed out.

"Oh, yes, that's right. Then how about I give you America? He looks like a grown man, but mentally he's about the same level as Sealand."

She laughed again.

"I'm serious." Arthur insisted jokingly "Give him some videogames and cartoons and he'll be more than happy. I say, the boy even has a bed time! If we leave a trail of those god-awful American sweets from Washington to your place, I'm sure he'd follow it."

Elizavetta smacked him on the shoulder.

"Damn you, Arthur, stop trying to make me laugh! I'm trying to be miserable here!"

The two laughed together. A mother pushed her pram past them up the path, and Elizavettas face fell a little as she looked after them. Arthur took her hand reassuringly.

"There may be no new nations right now, but even we can't live forever." He pointed out "When I'm gone, I would consider it an absolute honour if you would be the mother of my replacement."

She blushed, smiling sadly.

"What makes you think you'll disappear first?" she asked.

"Female nations always live longer." Arthur pointed out "How may male nations have come and gone in the time you've been alive?"

"Far too many." She brushed her hair behind her ear "The Great British Empire would really be happy with Austria-Hungry taking sovereignty of it?"

"No. But Arthur could rest in peace knowing Elizavetta and Roderich were taking care of his son."

She smiled shyly.

"You wouldn't prefer for a member of your family to take care of him? Or Francis even?"

"I can say from personal experience that my brothers and sister would be absolutely horrific guardians. And as for Francis," he laughed "If we don't kill each other, he'll go first."

Elizavetta laughed a little. She put her head on his shoulder and stared at the commuters passing by.

"Let's talk about something else." She suggested "Read any good books lately?"

* * *

Arthur sighed. While he was used to the arrogance of politicians, it never stopped annoying him. He had turned up on time at 10 Downing Street, as a gentleman does when he is invited somewhere, but the idiot Prime Minister was keeping him waiting. The interns at least were gracious enough to keep him in tea as he flicked through the Times. It was getting annoying close to noon – if this meeting didn't start and finish soon, he would have to leave for the conference before seeing the Prime Minister. As he finished the financial section, he was called in to the office.

He stood before the desk a moment, waiting the Prime Minister to finish signing off his paperwork before turning to him.

"Right. Glad you could turn up." He said by way of greeting "How did everything go last night?"

"Everyone enjoyed themselves." Arthur reported "No international incidents, as far as I could see."

"Good, good."

The Prime Minister got up from his chair and walked to the front of his desk, sitting down on it like a rad head master trying to commune with an unruly student.

"I just wanted to clear a few things up with you before the meeting." He went on "Make sure you and I are on the same page."

"If you insist."

"Right, good. Now, the thing is, I was wondering how long you were planning on keeping this up?" he asked.

"Keeping what up?" Arthur replied, genuinely confused.

Had he done anything lately? The Prime Minister sighed through his nose, as if he were the one getting annoyed.

"You clearly aren't aware of the state of things at the moment." He criticised "This government – your government – is doing everything in its power to get people back into work – get them off disability benefit and back into the workplace, and this phase you're going through… frankly, it's embarrassing, for us_ and_ for you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Do you know how many people are claiming disability benefit because of 'depression'? How are we supposed to tell those people that they're fit for work when Britain himself is skiving off work for the same thing?"

Arthurs body grew hot and tense. Was this…_idiot_…actually saying what he thought he was saying?

"Skiving?" he asked through gritted teeth "Embarrassing?"

"Yes." He said a little too happily, as if Arthur had agreed with him, getting up from his perch "I trust we'll have no more of this behaviour, okay?"

Arthur was livid. He practically saw red. He was embarrassed, alright, but he was far more than that. With a deep breath, he swept his hair back from his eyes.

"Actually, Dave, I have been keeping up with the news." He said calmly "And I know all about your 'workfare' scheme to remove peoples benefit. Your crooked 'assessors' declaring people fit for work when they're far from."

"Hey now-"

"We've all heard about that man in a coma your assessors declared fit to work." Arthur went on "The woman with the heart condition who _died_, after being declared fit." He smiled maliciously "Do you know how many people have died because of your workfare scheme? I do. No-one in Britain is embarrassed by _me_, Dave."

The Prime Minister marched back, doing his best to loom over the smaller man.

"Now see here!" he declared "Other nations-"

"The other nations have been nothing but supportive." Arthur interrupted, not intimidated at all "The only one 'embarrassed' is your administration."

"You-"

"The doctor – a man of medicine with over 15 years of study and experience – declared that I had an illness. And like any other illness, it would take me time to recover – _if_ I recover. Do you know more than a doctor, Dave? Have you studied medicine for more than 15 years?"

"Now you see here!" the Prime Minister bellowed "You clearly don't understand the kind of deficit we're dealing with here! We're trying to get people back into work and off benefits, and you _will_ tow the line!"

"I will, will I?"

"Yes! You work for me! After this conference, you will return to work as normal, or you won't have a job to return to!"

The Prime Minister walked away. Arthur couldn't help himself – he started laughing. The Prime Minister looked back at him as if he had lost his mind.

"I won't have a job!" Arthur laughed "I work for you! That – that's funny!"

Laughing his arse off, Arthur jumped forward, grabbed the Prime Ministers tie and pulled him down to his level. He stopped laughing, face deadly serious.

"I'm the United Fucking Kingdom." He said "I was here long before you, and I will be here long after. 500 years from now, no-one is even going to remember your name, but I will still be. You're bitching about being 'embarrassed'? I'm embarrassed to have a worm like you proclaiming himself to be the leader of _my_ people."

He released the tie, and the man attached to it stumbled back, clearly shocked at his sudden aggression. Arthur nonchalantly pulled a couple of tissues from the box on the table and wiped off his hands.

"As for my job," he dropped the tissues on the table "If you can find someone to replace me, Dave, you can _have_ my job."

With nothing more to say and time dragging on, Britain left for his meeting.

* * *

"Arthur, where the 'ell have you been?" Francis chastised as Arthur walked swiftly down the hall to the conference room "You are twenty minutes late, we 'ave all been waiting for you!"

"Sorry, sorry." He greeted "You know what blowhards politicians can be."

"_Oui, oui_, they never change. 'Old still, you scruffy boy."

Francis grabbed Arthur and straitened his tie. Behind him, Arthur saw Elizavetta talking tentatively with Ukraine. The other woman threw her arms around Elizavetta, who looked a little surprised, then hugged her back.

"Alright everyone!" Ludwig declared to the gathered nations "The meeting will begin in 2 minutes! Get to your seats now! Lateness will not be tolerated!"

The countries started filing in. With a laugh, Francis put his arm around Arthurs shoulders.

"Come, _Lapin_, let us get this circus over with."

* * *

I won't lie - this chapter felt kind of clunky, but I wasn't sure how to smooth it out. I hope it wasn't too obtrusive.

So yes, I didn't have the heart to make any of the nations the asshole, but I've been reading a lot about the workfare scheme, and the antagonist just kind of fell into place. What Arthur said is also true - a person in a coma was declared fit for work, and a disturbing number of disabled people have actually died after being told they're fit for work. I appreciate we have a deficit but killing off the disabled isn't going to fix it... ANYWAY... Because of the stigma of mental illness, many people keep their illness to themselves rather than informing their workplace, for fear of losing their jobs. While it is illegal for a company to fire you for being ill, if they want rid of you, they'll find reasons. Once again, personal experience.

On a lighter note...

Something that's always bothered me about fanfic reality is that the nations just kind of do what their bosses want them do to, even when they REALLY don't want to. Its not like they're immortal and extremely powerful personifications of the earth itself... I can imagine Britain might take shit from the Queen, but not a politician.

I want to end this fic before it gets tasteless, so I'm officially announcing its end after 2 more chapters - the Christmas chapter and the final chapter. What's going to happen in the final chapter? Fuck if I know... Accepting any suggestions!


	10. Chapter 10 Kirkland Family Christmas

The long awaited! Or is it? It feels like a long time since updating to me. Please enjoy!

* * *

**Kirkland Family Christmas.**

Arthur stared at the tree. It sat there impassively, not caring that he hated it. Its top branches scrapped and curled over his ceiling, dropping their needles onto the floor below. _Fucking America. _Arthur didn't hate Christmas trees, but he preferred them to be tastefully decorated, match the rest of his Christmas ornaments, and most importantly, FIT IN THE DAMN ROOM.

One couldn't fault Alfreds dedication to the season – not content with just invading Arthurs house with the biggest, most gaudily over-done tree that had ever existed in all the world, he had laden his poor brother down with more presents than all the orphan children in England would see that year combined. Arthurs lovely living room was awash with brash colours, boxes and the stench of plastic. Despite being a guest, Alfred had bought his video game system, and he and Matthew sat on the floor in front of the tv blasting zombies. Had Arthur failed that badly to teach that boy manners? Francis surveyed the mess in the living room.

"I am not cleaning this up." He declared.

"You invited them." Arthur reminded them.

"Alfred invited them." Francis corrected "_You_ said it was ok."

"Only because you had already told them yes!"

"Oh, and since when do you agree with me, _cheri_?"

"Hey, can we get some pretzels over here?" Alfred called, waving his hand about in the air without taking his eyes of the screen.

"No you may not!" Francis said sternly "I am making beef wellington for dinner, it will be ready in 'alf an 'our!"

"Whaaaa? Sounds gross. Who'd want to eat an old boot?"

Francis groaned in frustration, making a strangling motion with his hands.

"Hey, tomorrow, can we have burgers?" Alfred went on.

"_NON_!" Francis shrieked in horror "You do not 'ave burgers on Christmas day!"

"How come?"

Francis was speechless, mouth hung open in shock. Silently, he threw his hands in the air, grabbed the tea towel from his shoulder and pressed it against his ears to drown out the sound of the videogame and went back to the kitchen. Arthur couldn't help but laugh. He manoeuvred his way carefully across the floor, around the myriad of presents, plates and cups, and a bear reading 'Treasure Island' (seriously, what was up with that bear?), and sat on the couch behind the boys, watching them play. Alfred swore at the screen and jumped about where he sat, while Matthew played quietly. Well, some things never changed. A sudden jerk from Alfred sent Matthew toppling back, hitting the sofa where Arthur sat. The Canadian went to apologise, but Arthur just smiled at him. Matthew smiled back and went back to his game, but continued to lean against Arthurs legs.

"Hang on," Arthur noticed "It looks like there's five of you playing. Who are those other fellows?"

"The one in green is Japan." Matthew told him "The one in yellow is Korea, and the one is pink is Poland."

"Poland in bright pink, imagine that." Arthur muttered.

"And I'm in red 'cause I'm the leader!" Alfred announced triumphantly.

"Colours are picked randomly when the game starts." Matthew confirmed.

"Hey man, why you gotta harsh my buzz for, huh?"

"'What.'"

"Huh?"

"Not 'why', 'what.' And for that matter, it's not 'huh' either." Arthur scolded "Honestly, Alfred, didn't I teach you how to talk properly?"

"Whatever, dude."

Obviously not. Arthur watched them play for a while. He couldn't tell if they were winning, but a lot of zombies seemed to be dying. Did that count as winning? The red player (Alfred) marched ahead shooting everything, while the green player (Kiku) checked all the bodies and boxes for items. The pink player (Poland) ran about the place trying to jump on things ('Dude, this isn't fucking Mario, you can't jump on shit!'), while the yellow player (Korea) stood at the head of the dead zombie bodies and…crouched? What was that about? Matthew was the blue player, and it seemed to be his job to keep his team-mates from being eaten.

"I say, you're rather good at this." He complimented, patting him lightly on the shoulder.

"I know, right? I'm super boss!" Al declared again "That's why I'm the hero!"

"Yes, yes, whatever makes you happy, Alfred."

Francis called them all in to dinner ('_Non_, you cannot eat beef wellington on the floor while you play videogames!') and they sat about chatting happily as they ate. The boys were still abstaining from drinking (for reasons they still hadn't explained), and since alcohol messed with Arthurs pills, Francis was the only one who partook of a glass of fine red wine. He was incensed that there had been so many bottles left over after the party, especially when almost all the scotch had disappeared (but lets be honest, it had all but disappeared into Angus), but he was resolved to drink his way though them. Since he wasn't a heavy drinker – bar the occasional binge when his buddies were around – that was going to take some time to accomplish.

Discussion turned to whether or not Mr. Kumajiro should be allowed to eat at the table, seeing as he _was_ an animal. The debate was that since Fifi was not allowed to eat at the table, neither should he, but Matthew argued that since he was a _talking_ animal, it should be okay.

"Besides, I feed him at the table all the time at home." Matthew defended.

"He does." Alfred confirmed as he shovelled beef and pastry into his mouth.

"May I have some more water, please?" said bear asked Francis ever-so politely, since he had learnt he needed to be on his best manners here, or he got nothing.

Francis obliged.

"That's not a suitable reason." Arthur argued "An animal is an animal, regardless of whether or not it can talk, and the fact that you feed it at the table at home is just awful."

"Oh, come now, Arthur, you are being too 'ard on 'im." Francis cooed as he handed the bear his drink "You can 'ardly compare Kumajiro to some common cat or dog!"

"You're not helping." Was the scorned reply.

Francis laughed, ruffling Matthews hair.

"You can ignore 'im." He insisted "What 'e won't tell you is that 'e used to insist on feeding 'is 'unicorn' as the table when 'e was younger."

He laughed as he sat down, sipping his wine.

"Whenever I told 'im unicorns didn't exist, 'e would pitch such a fit!" he revealed "'E would scream and cry until I gave in!"

"Unicorns do exist, bloody frog!"

Arthur went bright red as the table descended into its usual chaos.

* * *

Matthew and Alfred were surprised to find the older nations sitting around in their pyjamas the next morning. Being Christmas day, they had dressed up nicely, brushed their hair and teeth perfectly and put on their best face. The older two hadn't bothered to brush their hair at all, and sat in the living room in their slippers and dressing gowns, drinking coffee and smoking.

"Aren't you gonna get dressed?" Alfred asked in amazement.

"What the devil for?" was Arthur response.

"Wha… what about going to church?" Al asked.

"Mass ended hours ago." Arthur pointed out "It's closed now, like everything else."

"What about carollers?"

"No-one carols in Britain." Francis joined.

"What if a light bulb goes out and you have to go across town to get one?"

"Then we'll have to wait until the day after Boxing Day when the shops re-open."

Alfred was aghast. His brain couldn't comprehend what he was hearing.

"_Everything's_ closed?" he shrieked.

"_Mon ami_, all the British do Christmas day is eat, drink, fight, drink, watch the queens speech and drink some more." Francis revealed "Unless there are children, then they open presents in between the drinking and fighting."

"That's-"

The doorbell went.

"I knew there had to be carollers!" Alfred exclaimed, bolting for the door like it held his salvation.

Matthew sat on the sofa between Arthur and Francis, hugging Kumajiro to him. Alfred returned under a cloud of gloom, trailed by the four expected figures.

"What's the hells wrong with the laddie?" Angus boomed, jabbing a thumb in Alfreds direction.

"He probably thought you were Santa." Bronwen chuckled as she threw her coat on the back of one of the chairs.

"Aye, he just needs a stiff drink, he'll perk right up." Patrick suggested.

"It's 9.30 in the morning!" Alfred shrieked incredulously.

"Aye, but it's Christmas!" James agreed "God never created a more acceptable excuse to drink in the morning."

"Aren't you Catholic?!"

"No, I am." Patrick pointed out "And I say we raise a pint of bitter in the name of lord. Who's with me?"

The Kirklands cheered and spread themselves out in the living room. The coffee table was soon laden not with boxes of gifts, but clinking bottles of alcohol, tins of shortbread and sweets and plates of finger food. The four gathered Kirklands weren't in their pyjamas, but they may well have been for the formality of their clothes – all four were in their slippers! Alfred was incredulous as they got cozy, the television playing_ ancient_ movies to no one at all, while the brothers argued and Bronwen fussed over the cutie-pie bear and his cutie-pie owner.

"Look a that paunch on you, little brother!" Angus boomed "You're getting fat! Must be all a that high falooting French cuisine you're eatin'!"

"_You're_ calling _me_ fat?" Arthur countered "Your weight's doubled in the last 100 years!"

"All muscle, little brother, all muscle!"

"I wuv his fuzzy widdle face!" Bronwen cooed "He is sooooo soft, just wike a widdle lammy!"

"I smell good too."

"I always thought sheeps wool was more coarse." Matthew admitted.

"Not when they're very, very little."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Wales, sweetie."

"Slow your arse down on those sweets, Jamie, you'll ruin your dinner!"

"Speak for yourself, Paddy! Slow down on that scotch of you'll have your head over the throne before noon, and I won't be the one holding your hair back!"

Having finished his coffee, Francis got up and took their mugs to the kitchen.

"Oi, Francy, whats for dinner?" Patrick asked, even as he stuffed his face with shortbread.

"We are 'aving slow cooked lamb, courtesy of _la belle_ Bronwen, with root vegetables roasted in a red wine reduction, with 'ome made tiramisu for afters."

"You have time to do all that on your own, Francis?" Bronwen asked "You need a hand in the kitchen?"

"_Belle cher_, I do not." He assured "I made the tiramisu the day before yesterday so the _liqueurs_ 'ad time to mature. The lamb 'as been placed into the slow cooker, and the vegetables will take but 'alf an hour."

"Ye'll make a good wife one day, laddie!"

The Kirklands burst into laughter. Francis bowed theatrically as he left the room. Alfred went to take his seat, but James leapt into it first, sidling up to his blonde brother. Patrick laughed and gestured to the floor where James had sat previously, and Alfred begrudgingly sat there. The American soon noticed something about the Kirklands that he hadn't before – everything they said to each other was an insult.

"You're in no condition to be criticising Artie – he's as least cute, even if he is getting chubby. You look like you fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down!"

"Wassat? Says the oldest hag ever tae walk the British Isles!"

"As far as I'm concerned, you're all as ugly as each other, which is why I'm happy to have a bit o' sea between your mugs and my emerald isle."

"Aye, and how do you think I feel having to look at you all the time?"

What should have been cruel words only seemed to lighten the mood, and the Kirklands laughed and cheered and raised their glasses while they belittled and insulted each other.

"Speak for yourself, Bronny, you're getting thunder-thighs!"

"Shove some more short-bread in your cake hole, Jamie!"

"Don't mind if I do!"

Alfred was thoroughly confused. Matthew sat with Angus to his left and Arthur to his right, looking a little lost, but not un-happy. Angus put his large arm around Matty's shoulders.

"How have you been, laddie?" he asked "It feels like I haven't seen you since the war!"

"I'm well, thank you." Was his reply "It has been a long time. How are you?"

At the computer, the Skype ring tone started to holler. When was that turned on? Arthur immediately got up.

"That's Peter!" he declared "He's with Sweden and Finland this year."

"It was fun having the wee lad last year." James remembered "It's been a while since we had a babby at Christmas."

He looked at Alfred and smiled.

"I guess you'll do."

The Kirklands all roared with laughter as Arthur spoke to Peter on the computer.

"Don't pick on the laddie, Jamie!" Angus said between chuckles.

"Aye, but he's right!" Patrick agreed "Poor little Alfie!"

"Alfie?" Alfred was lost for words – he was never been called Alfie before.

"Don't pull such a long face, Alfie, we're all kin here." Bronwen cooed before turning to her brother "He probably wants to open his presents."

"Agh, I left them in the bloody car."

"Well, go _get_ them then!"

"Like he needs them – have you seen all this crap around here?"

"Who the fuck ate all the toffee coins?"

"You did, you great ruddy pig!"

"Shut up the lot of you! I'm on the skype, you bloody lot!"

"Who are you?"

"I'm Wales, sweetie."

"I'm sorry, Bronwen."

"That's okay, love."

Suddenly, Al felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw Francis standing behind him. The Frenchman smiled.

"Welcome to a family Christmas, Alfred." He said "Keep your 'ands inside the car, cover your glass and keep Angus away from the Baileys – 'e gets weepy."

* * *

Christmas in England was an experience Alfred wouldn't forget any time soon – as per Francis' prediction, they had drunk, fought, drunk, eaten, opened presents and drunk more. They only stopped drinking to watch the worlds oldest lady in the worlds most expensive hat make the worlds most boring speech. Who was she, anyway? The meal was delicious, but he and Matthew were relegated to washing up duty afterwards.

"Why doesn't Britain have a dishwasher like a normal person?!"

"Well, he normally lives alone."

"So?!"

"It's uneconomical."

"What does that mean?"

"Less talky, more washy, you two!"

The Kirklands hung around far longer than was reasonable, finally stumbling out in a drunken stupor at about 10.30 that night.

"Are they okay to drive?" Matthew wondered as they stumbled along the street laughing and pushing each other about.

"Don't worry – black cab drivers are some of the few people who _do_ work Christmas." Arthur assured as he closed the door to the cold.

Alfred brushed his teeth as he readied himself for bed. He was exhausted. He hadn't done anything physical all day, but somehow he was completely exhausted, and it showed in the black bags under his eyes. He spat out the toothpaste into the sink and wiped his mouth. As he walked into the hall, he saw Arthur and Francis picking up the muss in the living room and cramming it into black bags. They playfully threw balls of wrapping paper at each other as they did so. Alfred didn't understand older nations. He thought they hated each other. He thought the Kirkland family didn't like each other at all. He clearly wasn't as grown up as he thought.

He scratched his head in confusion as he sat down on the bed with Matthew.

"Time for the daily inspection." He announced, taking his brothers hand.

Matthew let his brother pull back his sleeves and check his arms, knowing it was more trouble than it was worth to try and fight him. Between Alfreds constant attention and being repeatedly punched in the face, Matthew hadn't cut himself in a while. Nonetheless, every day before bed Alfred checked his arms for new cuts. Matthew wasn't quite sure what he was hoping to achieve (perhaps it was aversion training, seeing as Alfred punched him if there ever was a cut), but truth be told it was kind of sweet.

"Hey, you boys want any…"

Francis stood at the door, leftover tiramisu in his hands. He stopped short when he saw the young nations, Matthews scarred and tattered arms on full display, and his face went pale.

"Mathieu…"

His eyes filled with tears. He dropped the tiramisu onto the ground and launched at Matthew, flinging his arms around him and holding him tightly, sprouting off quickly in French.

"_Papa, calmer, s'il vous plait_…"

"_Non, Mathieu, mon Mathieu, mon enfant_!"

"What the devil's going on?" Arthur demanded as he came into the room "Why the bloody hell is there tiramisu all over my floor?!"

"_Arthur_!" Francis cried "_Aussi Mathieu_!"

"He also what?"

Alfred was still holding Matthews arm exposed, and Arthur soon noticed it. He didn't react as quickly as Francis had, emerald eyes clearly ticking things over in his head. With a sigh, he scratched his bandaged arm and ignored the ruined carpet as he walked towards them.

"_Pourquoi, Mathieu? Mon enfant_!" Francis continued to sob.

Arthur put his hand on as much of Matthews shoulder as was spare, and his other hand he laid on Alfreds shoulder.

"So, this is what you boys have been keeping from us." He said calmly "I was starting to worry."

"And you're not worried now that you know?!" Alfred yelled, finally letting go of his brothers arm.

Arthur smiled patiently.

"Knowing what a problem is is half way to solving it." He explained.

"Dad…" Matthew didn't double back on himself, looking at Arthur with big eyes.

"I'm sad that you let it get this bad and still didn't tell us." Arthur admitted "But we know now, and we can do something about it."

* * *

None of them slept until well into Boxing Day. With both his brother and the two men he considered his parents availed of the secret he had keeping so long, Matthew was finally able to break down, and spent most of the night with his head on his fathers lap, crying as he bore his soul to patiently waiting ears. Alfred sat on the floor beside him, close enough that his body was a solid presence, but not close enough to be in the way. Arthur stroked Matthews soft hair as he sobbed into his lap, and Francis didn't seem to be able to keep still, making drinks, hopping from chair to chair, feeding the pig and fetching blankets and snacks as he listened to Matthew.

Alfred kept quiet. Taking care of his brother the last few weeks had forced him to take a good look at himself, and truth be told he found areas for improvement. He could admit that, since he was a hero, and heroes don't have big egos. If a hero had a weakness, he worked on it, so that the villain couldn't use it against him later. Right now, he was working on 'sensing the mood.' Right now, he sensed he needed to stay put and say nothing, holding his brothers hand silently.

Francis and Arthur didn't interrupt Matthew as he vented hundreds of years of pent up frustration and sorrow, but listened quietly and occasionally asked questions. They didn't question why Cuba came up so much, though, which irked Alfred a little, but he kept it to himself. Finally, as dawn was breaking, the four quietly discussed their options. Matthew had tried medication, but he said it made him worse. Arthur insisted on asking Elizavetta (who was she?) about talking cures in the morning, and made Matthew promise to phone at least one of them once a week for a proper catch-up.

With nothing more than could be done at 7am on boxing day, the emotionally and physically exhausted group went to bed. Matthew, despite his bloodshot eyes, seemed lighter. Francis hugged him closely before bidding him _bon nuit_, and Arthur gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. Arthur gave Alfred a worried look before heading into his room.

* * *

Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his feet. Emotionally, he was drained, his mind awash with everything and nothing. Matthew. He wanted to help Matthew. How didn't he notice? Some of those scars on his arms were ancient, the stories he told them heart-breaking. In his depressed state, Arthur felt like no-one would ever notice if he fell into the ether, and go on happily without him, but Matthew… he wasn't feeling that, he was living it, and that broke Arthurs heart in a way that was new and devastating.

A pair of warm arms wrapped around him from behind, Francis laying his head on Arthurs shoulders. He knew the Frenchman was crying again, albeit silently, as he felt his shoulder grow wet and hot. He lent back into the larger man, who squeezed him tighter. He knew he couldn't say anything to make the situation better. He patted Francis' arms as he cried.

* * *

Heart-breaking happy ending? T_T At least for Matthew, things are going to improve. Didn't Alfred seem more grown up in this chapter? I've noticed that for scenes that are emotional, I use their 'human' names, rather than their 'nation' names, but in happier scenes I'm more than happy to use their official name. My intention was that Arthur was going to call everyone but who he was close with by their nation name, but I don't know if they spent enough time with the other nations for that to come across...

A brief note to everyone that has been kind enough to review - I love you guys! I must have pretty smart readers, as you all have wonderful things to say. I especially love those of you kind enough to review multiple times - I know who you are!

Anyway, one chapter left. I have some idea how to end it, but I'm still toying. Please look forward to it!


	11. Chapter 11 Tales of Wolves and Rabbits

The final chapter! Will it end the way you hoped? Regardless, please enjoy!

* * *

**Tales of Wolves and Rabbits.**

Just after New Year, Arthur and Francis saw the boys off at the airport. It was a sad goodbye, full of tears and hugs and promises to call as soon as they landed before disappearing into the terminal. Francis couldn't help but hug himself as he watched their backs disappear from sight. Rock-sturdy Elizavetta had come through spectacularly, not only talking to the four of them for quite some time on Skype the day after Boxing Day, but arranging a good doctor for Matthew to visit when he returned to Canada. Roderich also chipped in advice every now and again, more aimed to America, and it was surprisingly pragmatic – although he was Austria, so maybe it wasn't that surprising.

Matthew confessed later that he kept his secret so long not because he was too proud to ask for help, but because he was afraid of being judged. His fears were dispelled by the fussing of his parents and the quiet support of his brother – even the older nations he didn't know too well were helping, not judging. He wasn't being compared to his brother. No-one had said 'why can't you be more like Alfred?' That was his worst fear – being discarded because he couldn't compare. Arthur nodded sagely, but Alfred seemed genuinely hurt by this confession. Matthew didn't dislike him, not at all, but he cast a large shadow, and it was difficult for him to be seen behind it.

Francis had fussed over the boys more than usual, just like when they were children, filling them up with sweets and wrapping them up in scarfs and hats when they went outside. Matthew didn't seem to mind the attention, but Arthur could see Alfred start to get irked when Francis practically re-dressed him the hallway before letting him outside. Now they were leaving, the desolation was practically flowing from him. Arthur laid a gentle hand on his friends back.

"Come on, old chap, let's head off before the rush hour." He urged gently.

Francis kept staring into the crowd.

"Where did I go wrong?" he asked quietly.

"What's that?"

"First you, now Mathieu… all those I love most are suffering. Is it something I did? Is it my fault?"

Arthur punched him in the stomach, hard enough to bring him to his knees. The people made a good space around them as the Frenchman clutched his stomach and coughed, looking up at his attacker with shock and confusion.

"I don't want to hear that ever again." Arthur declared "What this is isn't in your control – if it was, I'd have killed you myself. You haven't done anything. None of us have any control over this – not me, not Matthew, not you."

Arthur held out his hand to Francis. The Frenchman stared at him a moment before taking it, letting Arthur pull him up. He immediately hugged the smaller man.

"_Merci, mon petite lapin_."

* * *

Despite his harsh words with the prime minister, Arthur did go back to work soon, but on far reduced hours, working from 10 until 3 so as not to stress himself out. Francis was a little lonely without him in the house all day, and made himself busy walking the pig, cleaning the house and cooking delicious food for when Arthur got home. He talked with Matthew practically every day, calling him over the Skype and sometimes chatting away for hours, sometimes important things, sometimes just stuff and nonsense. Occasionally Alfred was there as well – it seemed to Francis that Alfred had matured a little recently; he was calmer, at least with his brother, and actually seemed to listen when Francis spoke to him.

Winter lasted a long time in London. January became February, but the concrete sky remained firmly overhead. Fifi grew a little bigger and chewed up some of Arthurs shoes – threats of micro-pig bacon were rife for a good week after. Gilbert and Antonio came to London and crashed with them for two weeks, and hijinks naturally ensued as the trio made their way around the sites of London. Bidding them farewell at the end of their say wasn't nearly as difficult as saying goodbye to his boys at New Year, but he could admit to himself the being further away from his friends than usual was a little lonely.

"Then why don't you go and visit them sometimes?" Arthur had suggested when he got home from work that day "It's not like you're bound and chained here, you know."

An awkward silence followed. Talk of Francis going home hadn't come up in some time – Arthur couldn't put up a fight forever, afteral, and with Arthur having a better handle on his condition, even his doctor thought that Francis didn't need to stay there anymore. It played on Francis' mind as he did the dishes after lunch one day. He didn't _need_ to stay, but Arthur wasn't kicking him out either.

The hall phone rang. He had already talked to Matthew today, so he was confused as to who could be calling him – people knew Arthur was back at work. He dried his hands and sprinted down the hall to catch it.

"Allo?"

"_Ah, Monsieur Bonnefoy_!" A familiar voice greeted.

"_Monsieur President_!" Francis realised "_Good afternoon, sir_!"

_"Good afternoon. How are things over in England?"_

_ "The weather is miserable and the food is terrible."_

_ "Same as always, then!"_

The two laughed.

_"But seriously," _the president went on_ "You've been in England for a long time. I've heard that Monsieur Kirkland has returned to work, and he seems much improved, but I have yet to hear of your return."_

_ "Yes… my return…"_

Francis trailed off. The president picked up on this pretty quickly.

_ "Things are not so simple?"_ he asked.

_ "No sir."_ Francis confirmed_ "They are not so simple."_

_ "Why is that, if I may ask?"_

He thought about what best to say. He didn't want to get too candid with his boss, but the patient white noise on the end started to grow louder.

_ "I cannot leave."_ he said finally_ "I cannot bear it. I can't leave him alone. I'm scared of what will happen."_

The president listened patiently.

_ "It's true that I miss France. I miss my beautiful homeland and all my people, but I cannot leave Arthur when he needs me. I cannot leave him again."_

_ "Again?"_

Francis caught himself. He felt his cheeks grow hot.

_ "I see."_ Was his bosses reply_ "Well, truth be told, having you in England hasn't been bad for us – our diplomatic relations have improved considerably, which in this recession puts us in a good position."_

_ "Ah, is that so?"_

_ "If you feel you need to stay in England a little longer, I can just forward your work to you. The internet has made the world so much smaller, afteral."_

_ "Monsieur President…"_

_ "We'll need you in July, of course, but we can discuss that closer to the time. The last thing we need is our closest ally going downhill, so you take good care of Monsieur Kirkland, okay?"_

* * *

All the lights were off when Arthur returned home, a couple of hours later than he intended. The usual smell of cooking that greeted him when he got home was conspicuously absent, and it was all but silent except for the faint sound of the BBC news coming from the living room. Fifi was immediately at his feet, demanding to be fed, and raced off to the kitchen as soon as Arthur took off his shoes. Arthur found Francis sleeping on the couch, wine glass laying empty on the coffee table. It wasn't like him to take a nap in the middle of the day. His laptop lay open on the floor, a slideshow of beautiful Paris sites and picturesque vineyards playing to itself. Each picture was full of people – his friends, his children, random beautiful women…

Arthur sighed. Of course, France was a part of a vast continent, it was only natural he would be lonely, stuck on this little island. Arthur was used to the solitary nature of islandhood. He could tell Francis hadn't been his usual self lately, especially since his friends had left. He constantly wore a sad expression, even when he tried to smile. Arthur knew that Francis was the sensitive type, and the situation was probably getting to him more than he wanted to admit.

Arthur gently swept the hair away from Francis' face, causing the Frenchman to wake up.

"Ah…_lapin."_

Francis rubbed his eyes and sat up.

"Dinner's not ready. I'm sorry." He mumbled sleepily.

"That's alright." Arthur assured "What were you planning? I'll get started."

"It was…ah, chicken, but I didn't take it out of the freezer." He sighed "What else is there?"

"Why don't we go out?" Arthur suggested "You're always cooking, it wouldn't hurt us to go to a restaurant every now and then. I'll even let you pick the place."

Francis looked at him a moment, clearly still half asleep.

"That sounds nice." He said finally, hauling himself up from the couch "I'll go get changed."

Francis stumbled down the dark hall. Behind him, Arthur picked up the phone.

* * *

"Oh, guess who's getting married." Arthur said as they tucked into their dinner as the fancy restaurant Francis had picked.

"Oh? Um… Antonio and Romano?"

"Nope, try again."

Arthur chewed on his potatoes. Francis stopped cutting his vegetables as he thought. He pulled a horrid face.

"'As Belarus finally got Russia in chains?"

"Thankfully, no." Arthur swallowed "Roderich and Elizavetta are getting married."

"_Mon ami,_ they are already married." Francis pointed out.

"Yes." Arthur admitted "They're renewing their vows. A lot of the world was at war with each other when they married the first time, so they want to do it again with all their friends there."

"Oh, that sounds nice."

"Glad you think so. They're holding it in France."

"What? Why? Not that I mind, of course, France _is_ the country of love." He went back to cutting his vegetables "But I do wish they 'ad asked me first."

"They asked your boss, apparently."

"Hm."

"Oh, don't pull such a long face." Arthur urged "It's not like we aren't invited! It's two weeks from today."

"_Mon dieu_, is that enough time to plan a wedding?"

"Between Austria and Germany, you wonder if two weeks is enough?"

"_Oui,_ I retract the question."

"We'll both need new suits, though. The theme is 'Paris in Spring', it seems. Can I leave that up to you?"

"But of course! I 'ave the perfect _ensemble_ in mind already!"

"Perfect. I'll leave everything up to you, then."

* * *

"It's left here."

"_Non_, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"_Non_, it's not."

"Look, the sat nav is telling you to go left!"

"I 'ave lived 'ere all my life, Arthur, I remember when this entire city was nothing more than fields! I know where I am going!"

They came to a dead end. Francis swore and put the car into reverse.

"Not a word." He hissed at Arthur.

"Mm-hm."

Arthur thought that being back home would put Francis in a better mood, but the past two weeks the Frenchman had been getting grumpier and grumpier, saying nothing on the ferry over and burying himself in a paperback. He barrelled about the Paris streets with more abandon than usual, perhaps even recklessly, as they made their way to the country villa where the ceremony was being held.

Gilbert met them at the front door of the hotel, dressed to the nines in his best tux, looking extremely irate.

"You idiots are late!" he scorned as they jumped out of the car "The ceremony's about to start!"

"Sorry, sorry!" Arthur apologised as Francis pulled their bags out of the boot "The ferry was delayed!"

"Learn to fly like a normal person!" Gilbert ordered "And get your arses changed quick! We don't have time to hang around!"

Francis swore again, shoving a clean and preened Fifi into Gilberts arms and dragging Arthur down the hall to the closest changing room. They changed in a flash and bolted to the banquet room, but Arthur pulled Francis back before he opened the door.

"For fucks sake, Arthur, what?" he spat.

"Your fucking tie is crooked, git!" was the answer.

Arthur adjusted the bowtie, giving Francis a moment to calm down.

"You're the host country, remember?" Arthur pointed out "So don't show such a sour face to the bride and groom."

"_Oui, oui_."

"Francis!"

With a tight grip on Francis' tie, Arthur pulled him down so they were eye to eye.

"I mean it." He said certainly.

After a moments hard look, Francis sighed, his body relaxing.

"_Oui_." He said again "I am fine. Thank you."

Arthur released him, and the Frenchman stood strait, smoothing out his shirt and swishing back his hair. He put on his best (fake) smile and opened the doors.

* * *

"~SURPRISE~!"

Party poppers exploded all about. Whistles blew, glasses clinked and the band kicked into gear as Francis gaped at the accumulated nations. He looked back at Arthur, who just smiled at him, before looking back at the crowd.

"Get in here, you loser!" Gilbert shrieked at him, pulling him further into the room by his arm "The awesome me didn't put all this together just so you could stare at it!"

"Wha… you did this?" Francis stammered.

"Of course!"

A series of loud throat clears drained the colour from the Prussians face.

"Well, I had a little help, here and there." He admitted "But it was eyebrows who paid for it all – who knew the cheapskate could be so generous?"

"_Amigo_, I made you the most delicious paella you ever ate!" Antonio called form the buffet table "Guaranteed!"

"Why would he want to eat your tomato soup goo?!" Yao demanded in his usual exasperation "I have bought delicious dim sum all the way from my home!"

"I bought vodka!"

"Yeah, let's make Bloody Marys! It'll be AWESOME!"

As he was pulled into the crowd, Francis looked around for Arthur, but he had disappeared.

* * *

Outside, Arthur sat on the old wooden swings under the tree with Elizavetta, sipping their champagne.

"Thanks again for your help, Lizzy."

"Oh, it's no problem." She assured "It's good to remind people how important they are to you every now and again. Besides, you paid for it."

"Haha, don't remind me."

They had a good view of the party where they were – some of the revellers were making their way into the spring sunshine, as the banquet hall wasn't really big enough for them to get rowdy in. They saw a great commotion as Matthew and Alfred arrived, and the noise level noticeably increased. Elizavetta laughed.

"It's nice to get together." She said.

Roderich walked out of the building into the garden, looking all around. Spotting Elizavetta on the swing, he raised his arm, hand stretched towards her, and smiled. She noticeably blushed.

"I should go." She said coyly, getting up from the swing.

Arthur laughed and bid her _adieu_. She linked her arm with her husbands, and the two of them strolled around the garden. Before Arthur could feel lonely, a heavy body dropped itself into the swing.

"You're late." Arthur teased.

"The plane was delayed." Alfred defended "Something about fog, or something."

"Mm-hm."

The two sat in silence a while. It seemed Alfred still wasn't drinking.

"How are you feeling?" Arthur asked him.

"I'm okay. You?"

"Same as always. Are you really fine?"

Alfred finally looked at him, a little surprised.

"You've been awfully quiet, of late." Arthur pointed out "It's a little worrying."

"Oh, I'm fine." Alfred assured quickly "I'm just…" he searched for the words "Trying to be better."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I mean, I'm the older brother, but Matty's way more mature than me. One night with you and Francis helped him more than living with me for weeks did. I want to be the kind of person that my brother can rely on, you know?"

Arthur nodded, patting Alfred on the back.

"Don't force yourself." He urged "You're not even 300 years old yet." He smiled "I'm sure, in time, you'll become a reliable big brother."

"Thanks, man."

There was silence for a moment.

"Wow, that's not awkward!" Alfred declared loudly "I'm gonna get some paella! What the hell's in that stuff anyway?"

The young nation sped off. Arthur couldn't help but laugh. Suddenly, he was grabbed from behind, arms linking under his and hands locking behind his head.

"What?!"

"West, grab his legs!"

With a sigh, Ludwig appeared from behind him, looking put out.

"Sorry, Arthur."

"What the devil, you two?!"

Hauled away by the two Germans, Arthur didn't see the point in fighting – he might beat one of them, but since they weren't exactly at war, he didn't see the point in trying too hard. The two carried him back into the party hall, to the delight of the baying crowd, and put him back on his feet in front of Francis, who stood with his arms crossed, looking stern. The two stared each other down, but Francis couldn't keep it up, and started laughing.

"I 'ate you, Arthur!" he said between chuckles "You damn tea-drinking idiot!"

"Same to you, cheese-eating frog-monkey."

Arthur started laughing as well. The crowd cheered and raised their glasses, declaring a toast to the day.

* * *

Laid on his back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, Francis hummed happily to himself. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow onto the antique furniture. The Germanics were so on top of things, they had even taken the time to give his dusty house a clean before the occupants got there, opening the windows and changing the sheets. He was tired, his body aching, but in the best possible way. He had been unhappy for a while, but he hadn't realised how unhappy.

What wonderful friends he had. What a lovely party. What a magical day. The thought made him smile, warming the very bottom of his heart. Downstairs, he could hear Alfred and Matthew bumbling about, arguing over who got to sleep in the top bunk in the guest room. The door to his room creaked open quietly.

"Good grief, you could at least take off your shoes." Arthur scolded gently.

"My 'ands won't let me." Francis told him "They are preoccupied."

"Good grief."

He felt Arthur grab his feet and pull off his shoes. He sat up suddenly, grabbing the small man and pulling him back down onto the bed, holding him tightly.

"What the hell?!"

"I told you, my 'ands were busy." Francis repeated "Laying traps for little rabbits." He squeezed Arthur "I caught one."

"You!… You idiot."

Arthur went bright red, but didn't pull himself out of Francis' grip.

"_Merci, mon petite lapin." _He purred.

"Wh-what are you thanking me for?"

"For today. It was a wonderful surprise. I didn't realise 'ow much I needed it."

"You're an idiot." Arthur said plainly "This was _my_ way of thanking _you_."

"Oh? What are you thanking me for, _lapin_?"

"What, you ask…"

Arthur went red again. Francis gave him another squeeze.

"You do not 'ave to thank me, _lapin_. This much is easy for someone you love."

"Lo-" Arthur stumbled over his words, as his usually did when such talk came up "S-stop calling me a rabbit, you bloody idiot!"

Francis laughed.

"But you are _mon petite lapin_!" he insisted.

"If I'm a rabbit, you're the bloody big bad wolf!"

"_Oui_!"

"Yipe!"

Francis spun them around so Arthur was lying flat on his back, face still ablaze, and Francis sat on his belly. He took Arthurs hand and kissed it gently.

"And I am about to eat you up." He purred.

He leaned forward intently, closing in on Arthurs lips.

"DAAAD!" came a scream from downstairs "Tell Alfred not to drink out of the bidet!"

Arthur pushed Francis aside and leapt of the bed.

"Fucking hell, Alfred, are you retarded?!"

Arthur bolted from the room, leaving Francis alone on the bed. Francis smiled to himself.

"Run, run, little rabbit." He purred to himself "The big bad wolf will catch you eventually."

Francis got off the bed as the yelling downstairs increased, closing the door behind him as he went to help Arthur with the boys.

* * *

Sorry, readers, no smut in this story! Did it end the way you thought? I hope you enjoyed it regardless. Despite always being about, none of the chapters really focused on Francis before this, so I thought it was about time he had something nice happen for him - good deeds should be rewarded, afterall. Where will it go from here? I'll leave that to your imaginations ~.

As for Arthur and Matthew - well, there's no magic cure for mental illness, you just learn how to cope, but doesn't it feel like things are improving for them?

Anyway, thank you for reading Sometimes Friends, Sometimes Enemies, Always Brothers. I've had a lot of great feedback, and I've enjoyed reading every word of it. Please look out for my other works in the future!


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